


Trophy Husband

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A little angst, Basically Rambling So Please Bear With Me, Because What Is My Writing WIthout Angst, Clueless As Usual John, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nonexistent Is What, Pining Sherlock, So John Hardly Ever Knows Anything For Sure, To Be Fair Sherlock Does Tend To Play His Cards Close To His Chest, a little smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-16 12:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10571121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: It's a school reunion





	1. Social Experiment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [distantstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/gifts).



> WTAF HAPPENED?! 
> 
> This was supposed to be a nice, neat little one shot for my friend to help get my juices flowing again and  
> several chapters later...

John didn't know what made him RSVP to his twenty-fifth school reunion. Not that he'd had a hard time there back then. In fact, it was quite the opposite what with his penchant for attracting popularity but somehow avoiding the drama that came along with it. Nothing was ever handed to him, mind, yet when he took his fair share he was usually acknowledged in a positive light. Truth was, he was unsure how to present his massive success, as it wasn't success in a manner understandable by most. 

 

He'd not only survived, but thrived after the lowest he'd ever been, getting exactly what he needed in the way of adrenaline and genuinely helping people beyond his medical training. It wasn't exactly the war he missed. Mycroft wasn't precisely correct about that. No, it was the aspects surrounding it, the rush of helping fix a human being who may have had much more to offer the world than his or her life at the time. As long as there was a tomorrow, there was always hope for anything, from curing diseases to mending relationships on a minor/major scale.

 

However, when that was taken from him, despite the knowledge always in the back of his mind that it could happen with the situations in which he immersed himself, he was... well... lost. He drifted through life like a ghost, with daily contemplation on whether or not it was time to make himself into a real one. The only thing that kept him alive at that point was disappointing his Mum, though she'd been gone several years by then, the cancer he thought at first was so aggressive that she didn't even have time for options, actually having lived within her the whole time he was in. She just never told him or his sister, citing they had enough to worry about. All he had left by the time she went was a drunken Skype call from Harry, berating him for not being there, for insisting on having to be away from her and Mum. He could have helped her, she'd screamed at him. Logic dictated that of course he couldn't have done. Mum hadn't even said anything until it was too late. That didn't stop his heart from complete agreement with his sister.

 

 _"You must to live for me, Johnny,"_  Mum had unfairly begged when she'd finally said something. _"You have so much yet to offer the world."_

That Skype call was the last time he'd let himself weep until... Sherlock.

 

Sherlock Holmes didn't just exist, he _happened_. One moment John was pretending to care if he lived or died by at least having a conversation about a flat share with an old university mate he happened to run into during one of his self-inflicted constitutionals, the next, he was running the streets of London, _sans_  limp and sense of impending doom. All after maybe ten minutes altogether in two days in the man's rather dramatic presence. John had let him use his phone and the rest, as they say, was history.

 

Not even Harry drove him to his patience limit so very quickly, but Sherlock made him actually enjoy it. There was so much more to the Consulting Detective than met the eye, and that was saying something, as there was plenty for the eye to meet. On the surface, he seemed John's complete opposite; tall where John was short, lithe were John was stocky, pale compared to a slight golden sheen John somehow retained even now from being constantly in the desert sun. Sherlock's hair was a raven mass of lazy curls and waves and, though only a few years his junior, it seemed not one strand of grey dared to show itself. John maintained his military cut out of habit, though nowadays there was much more silver than gold when he looked in the mirror. Talking of the mirror, John, who was never really concerned about the aspects of his appearance he could do nothing about, took more note of the bags under his eyes and the smattering of scarring from when he had really bad spots as a young teen-ager. They'd never gotten in the way before, and they didn't now, it was just that Sherlock had few wrinkles, and only in precise locations, as if he dictated they were only allowed to be in those specific areas by his particular command, so that his face looked wisened enough to be taken seriously. 

 

In fact, everything about him at first seemed to be under his complete control and John knew Sherlock did that on purpose. He knew a uniform when he saw one, despite its non-traditional aspect. Everything that Sherlock had that was opposite to him turned out to be a compliment. The yin to his yang, their similarities and differences fit together seamlessly to make a whole, the base aspect of one central to the other. 

 

So when Sherlock committed suicide, John witnessed his own breaking this time, felt everything, strangely, even more keenly than when he was shot, as he was mostly in a drug-induced state in those early days. But there were no proper medications to dull the pain of Sherlock's absence, and still his mother's voice sounded off. But then, there was another, smaller one. It whispered and teased with unclear motive and strangely pronounced words. He practically ran back to his therapist, just _knowing_  she would diagnose him with some sort of schizophrenia or at least have him see about a brain tumor. Because that was his lot in life now, wasn't it? Acquiring something terminal once he'd found a reason to live. But there was no such diagnosis, and he was once again left alone to deal with everything. 

 

He begged for him not to be dead. Prayed to whomever would listen, including Sherlock himself. John would giggle to himself sometimes, now that Sherlock was back, about how he'd react to being thus deified. It was even funnier that this well-known atheist was the sole reason for his believing there definitely was a God, and that the Almighty's favourite pastime was fucking with his creations like some sort of mediocre writer whose works you'd grab last minute before a long flight because the cover looked interesting enough.

 

"You seem a bit off, John." Sherlock stated, reading much further into the way John turned the medical journal pages. "Something the matter?"

 

"It's not like you to care how someone else is," John retorted, surprisingly irritated. He heard Sherlock lift his head from the microscope on the kitchen table and clearly pictured it turning mechanically to analytically peer at the back of John's head a moment before getting back to it.

 

"A social experiment," he murmured. "Won't happen again." John sighed and was going to be a man about this. He got up and walked to the sliding kitchen doors, stood open.

 

"No. No sorry, Sherlock. I just don't know how to explain..." Sherlock's eyes were cautiously interested. He sometimes forgot how sensitive Sherlock actually was, especially now. The man would still sooner cut out his own tongue than admit it, however.

 

"Explain what?"

 

"This... whole thing." John gestured widely. Sherlock scanned the area then settled his eyes back on John in that unsettling way he had.

 

"The flat?"

 

"No, us! I never really had to explain it before. Most of the people I talk to either understand completely or don't ask. I mean, even you have to admit it's not the most normal situation."

 

"Do friends not flatshare and go into business together?" John crossed his arms and pursed and unpursed his lips a couple of times before lightly clearing his throat.

 

"Well when you put it like that..."

 

"What do you think they're going to ask you that you don't talk about in your silly blog?" Sherlock again looked through the eye pieces. "They don't have to know every little thing about, say, government clearance, or the foot in the crisper."

 

" _I_  didn't know about the foot in the... Sherlock we _talked_  about this!"

 

"Oopsie." The only indication of any reaction was that his lean shoulders tightened minutely when John shouted. It meant a modicum of contrition, despite the fact that it probably would happen again. Also, when did John get so in tune with the smallest of gestures? He rushed over to where the offending appendage was stored and yanked open the door, thinking twice before donning a pair of Marigold washing up gloves with which to handle the specimen. "John!" Sherlock cried out, getting to his feet so quickly, he nearly upset the entire table. John, being smaller, twisted away from his long, grabbing hands and went around the other side of the table. "That has to maintain a certain temperature in order to tell me what I need to know. You're ruining it!" he explained rapidly.

 

"I'll ruin _you_!" John shot back, dodging and moving around the table to successfully avoid his chasing flatmate. "The next time you did this without my agreeing to it you're to get a separate refrigerator, remember?" John sped out the kitchen door and came back in the sitting room one, hearing Sherlock double back sneakily and taking the opportunity to turn and bolt down the stairs to the music of Sherlock's frustrated growl.

 

"We did agree," the consulting detective whined. 

 

"Mind palace agreement doesn't count, you know that!" He nearly bowled over Mrs. Hudson coming out to see what all the commotion was about. John swiftly tugged her into her flat and locked the door behind them. He tucked the foot in the freezer before their landlady saw what it was and silently hushed her with a finger to his lips. There were scratching noises at the front door but John knew his best mate, waiting until he heard the direction of quiet footsteps, though the scratching continued. He looked at his watch before very quietly instructing Mrs. Hudson to wait exactly two minutes after he'd closed the front door, then yank the back door open.

 

"You lads will be the death of me," she complained, accepting John's hurried cheek peck before making her way into position. 

 

John retrieved the sample (again without revealing to Mrs. Hudson what it was) and quietly opened the front door, finding the hall predictably empty. He snuck back up to the flat, quickly locking both doors and putting the foot in its original place before going to his chair and laptop. He was able to email three links of what he thought were well-priced refrigerated units before he heard Sherlock's key scraping in the lock of the kitchen door. He remained still as Sherlock did a wild check that the specimen was still viable, sighing in relief that it was. John would never have really compromised something so important as to warrant such a prominent human body part, but he was still going to insist on the separate fridge. 

 

Sherlock stroppily threw himself into his chair facing John, pouting and attempting to get his flatmate's attention through the judicious application of the most hateful glare he could come up with. After a full minute of attempting to ignore it under the guise of researching more units, John couldn't help the tiniest of smirks, which quickly went downhill when, coincidentally, a muted video ad for the opening sequence of Monty Python's Flying Circus popped up in the sidebar. When the foot came down on the entire affair, John burst out laughing, clicking on it to produce sound and a full-screen view of the replay before turning it to face Sherlock, who subsequently began a low, rumbling chuckle. Before long, they were both in hysterics, John having to put down the laptop before he dropped it. Sherlock picked up his own laptop and typed something in extremely quickly as they finally calmed.

 

"You're a doctor, ex-military, and semi-famous," Sherlock listed. "There are legions that would give their right arm to accompany you to your school reunion." The consulting detective turned his laptop around and handed it to John, a site open which contained profiles of girls making themselves available to date him specifically. John supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking of, but he couldn't help being amazed at the dichotomy between the man's insight and ignorance. He could tell a potential client what he had for breakfast three days ago, but not think much wrong with, say, keeping a human foot in the crisper, even after repeated discussions regarding respect for common areas and related things. John was properly surprised by this website. There were literally hundreds of women, virtually(literally) throwing themselves at his rather high quality size 44s. As children, Mum always made sure that if nothing else, they had a good pair of shoes, a good coat, a church outfit that fit, and a good jumper, all fashion staples that made their way into his adult wardrobe.

 

"A bit young, aren't they?" was all he could come up with after scrolling through a few, all of whom looked like virtual teen-agers to him. He leaned over to hand the computer back.

 

"Of age to drink," Sherlock said, a brief raised eyebrow seeming attached by a string to his shoulders, making them shallowly raise with it. John perused the ads much longer than he felt was warranted, tempted to take quite a few up on their offers, but many were so vapid under the surface, according to his now much more refined observational skills, that it would hardly be worth it. Several decades ago, perhaps, but even back then, he always had more severe crushes on the cleverer girls. Now, he hadn't the time to raise his partner along with any potential future offspring. He had enough of a time with Sherlock in the picture.

 

And that was the gist of it, wasn't it? Sherlock would always be in the picture, whether or not he was wanted, and John was _okay_  with that. Anyone who came into his life Post Sherlock would also have to be so. He handed Sherlock back his laptop and got on his once more, musing aloud that he probably should just take Sherlock. Despite a potential for disaster at least as high as it would be with one of these young ladies, it was at least guaranteed to be _fun_  disaster, even if he wouldn't find amusement in it until later.

 

"They think we're a couple anyway," Sherlock replied, focused on his screen, hopefully going through the suggested refrigerated units. He probably wasn't, though.

 

"What? No not like that. I-"

 

"Why not?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"You obviously have no objection to homosexuality, and our perceived coupling has done nothing to dampen your ability to, what you would call 'pull'."

 

"Do you think I'd want someone who thinks nothing of getting between an established couple? You know I'm not the 'open relationship' type. But Greg calling you my 'work wife' that time was just a joke."

 

"How dare you minimise our relationship." 

 

"Did you want a divorce?" 

 

"Oh God, no," Sherlock exchanged a smirk with him. "I'd have to train someone else and it would all be terribly inconvenient. Besides, imagine how dull your life would be without me."

 

"I don't have to." That statement, an echo of one in the beginning of their relationship, also talking about important emotional definitions, sobered them immensely. "There's also something else I'm not," John continued quickly.

 

"Which is?" John had to look at him again now. Really?

 

"Gay," he said, for about the thousandth time.

 

"So?" It was John's turn to narrow his eyes in minor frustration with the person to whom he was speaking not understanding him. Turns out, he didn't actually understand. "You don't have to be gay or straight anymore. There are a plethora of sexualities that exist between zero and six on the Kinsey Scale. Besides, you know who you are, John Watson, despite the fact that you often let others' definition of you get in the way."

 

"That was... incredibly insightful."

 

"It's kind of what I do for a living." Another shared snicker surfaced at that, breaking the thin sheen of ice that had formed.

 

"I don't think it's getting in the way," John stated thoughtfully. "I define myself as 'not gay'. My sister's the gay one."

 

"You're still defining yourself according to someone else," Sherlock explained, closing his laptop and standing to gaze into the mirror above the fireplace, cold for the mild, dry weather. "You are saying, however unintentionally, that you're only not gay because your sister is." John felt his eyes on him for a moment before he looked up to see Sherlock's usual Mask Of Analysis. "Is the problem that people think you're gay, or that you're with me?" Sherlock continued to surprise him with the unusual subtlety of his probing questions. Well, subtle for the consulting detective, anyways. This was, to date, not only the strangest conversation they'd ever had, but the most emotionally based. John supposed it wasn't weird that it was... well... weird.

 

"What?" John's attempts at wrapping his mind around everything being discussed were initially unsuccessful, another usual thing in the unusual task of speaking deeply with Sherlock, if he was honest with himself.

 

"Is your objection to the definition general or... personal?" Sherlock looked back at the mirror, nervously tapping long, pale fingers covered in tiny scars and callouses from his various professional and private pursuits.

 

"Sherlock," he stood almost involuntarily. "Are you... do you think if I was gay-" he quickly reworded the question at a short, sharp glance from his friend, "If I was... romantically inclined toward men in any capacity, that I wouldn't want to be with you?" Cleverness was his only security. Other than his mind, Sherlock was just as vulnerable as anyone else, if not more so. It was why it was such a big deal when someone mentally bested him, however briefly. It was all a bit heart-breaking.

 

"Well you did almost shoot me that time."

 

"You broke into my room in the middle of the night."

 

"You were having a nightmare."

 

"And you just happened to be scaling the building outside my window?"

 

"It was an experiment." These conversations could go on for an hour if nothing was done about it.

 

"Look, Sherlock, you know me. Better than anyone."

 

"Right."

 

"If I was... that way... is there anyone else I _could_ be with?" He allowed Sherlock his scan, determined to expose the full force of the truth to him. Sherlock snatched his eyes away and went back to his microscope to hide the physical evidence of whatever he was emoting. John followed, curious to see what would happen next.

 

"I suppose not," he said finally, sniffing at the slide he chose and held up to the desk light he'd moved in there for the time being. 

 

"Besides," John tried to find something, anything that would lighten the mood, as this was dangerously close to pain, "you know of the two of us, people would be much more interested in you."

 

"All the more reason to take me," Sherlock stated nonchalantly. John must have had some sort of strange expression on his face, because with a glance, Sherlock sighed. "They're not interested in me, per se. They're interested in me in the context of you. Further demonstration of the dangers of letting others define you. They have no idea who I really am, only the idealized version of me you show them. Together, they not only see that you have locked down the mysterious Sherlock Holmes, but that I've managed to nab one of London's most eligible bachelors. We would be the strongest couple there. It would show up some of your less positively inclined acquaintances."

 

"Resorting to ego strokes now, are we?"

 

"Whatever gets the job done."

 

"What's your angle really? Why is this so important to you?" That was the crux of the entire thing. 

 

"There's... data missing. Things I don't know about you, despite knowing you."

 

"You don't have to know everything all the time." A keen look had John rolling his eyes. "Okay maybe _you_  do, but it won't kill you for me to keep some things to myself for a while. What if I want to... I dunno, throw you a surprise party or something." That garnered another round of sudden and acute scrutiny. Sherlock put his palms flat on the table as if the gesture gave him extra leverage to stare extra hard.

 

"I don't like surprises. Are you planning a surprise party? What for?"

 

"Sherlock, I'm not- Look, if you really want to come, then we'll go. It'll be a... social experiment if nothing else." And possibly a reason not to stay long if it wasn't going well.

 

"Yes! A social experiment!" Sherlock's excitement was a bit contagious, even when John wasn't quite sure what it was over, which was usually.

 

John fully entered the kitchen and jokingly stood behind the chair in which Sherlock sat, putting his hands on his shoulders and rhythmically squeezing in a light massaging motion. Sherlock stiffened as he normally did when touch was not anticipated, but he gave no indication he was more uncomfortable than usual. "Mysterious, are we?"

 

"Well, _I_ am." 

 

"Cracked the case of the Tin Detective, have I? Is that what I'll write in the announcement?"

 

"Oh God, please don't." There was an epic sigh and a legendary eye roll, but Sherlock, interestingly enough didn't move from under his kneading hands.

 

"I can see it now," John continued in a wistful tone. "Matching coats..."

 

"John, please!"

 

"Anatomically correct hearts on Valentine's Day..."

 

"Well if it's connected to a case or something interesting like that..." John stopped his 'fantasizing' and leaned over for the sole purpose of giving Sherlock a hard look. "Oh don't look so scandalised. Do you honestly think I wouldn't be all for that bit?" The laughter this time was full on and cathartic. With a final pat, John went to make tea and Sherlock suddenly retrieved his laptop and holed himself up in his room. It wasn't unusual, so John took no special note of it. As he re-scrubbed his favourite mug with bleach to counteract the potential danger of any lingering experiment components, he paused.  
  
What had he gotten himself into this time?

 


	2. For Science

It was familiar and domestic and comforting, all cornerstones of the fact that this was a dream; a very vivid dream in which all five senses were fully stimulated. Even within the unconscious illusion, he could tell his eyes were shut, the orange glow of early morning sunlight on the other side of his lids serving as a gentle incitement to wakefulness. It didn't demand, but bade him open his eyes in his own time, however long it took. He was enveloped in what he could only think of as 'the fragrance of dawn'. It spoke of not only newness, but the history of time, the rebirth of light after death. Basically, how someone extremely dear to someone else would smell at first light, whether they be lover, parent, sibling, or child, clean sweat and warm with impending enthusiasm for the day ahead. There was also a rather octopus-like quality to the embrace, as if there were many arms holding him at once. His mouth tasted of security in the fact that whoever was his bed-mate wouldn't object to an affectionate kiss, no matter how heinous his breath, or how they would playfully inform him of how offended they were by it.  

 

A familiar tune permeated the quiet in a way that only seemed to enhance the comfort of it, like a feather cushion or fleece blanket, though he hadn't any idea why it was so known. It soothed and only gentled the path one was already on, whether it was to sleep or to wakefulness. He would have gone the former direction if not for the tiniest of nagging sensations in the tightest corner of his mind. He tried to attribute the strangeness to the dream state, but that wasn't quite it. Yes, his bladder was full, but that was much more blatant. Before he got to the point where he could properly question the situation, there was an answer in an already deep voice, gruffed further and slightly slurred with sleep.

 

"You're thinking too loudly," it complained. "This is simply an attempt to become more comfortable with being in closer than usual proximity." The next bit was slightly distorted by a yawn. "If we're going to be a convincing couple, that is."

 

"We're apparently already a convincing couple," he retorted, noting the slight lisp Sherlock always got when overtired or otherwise mentally altered as he did so.

 

"Mm." Was all the response he was getting for the moment, accompanied with what was unmistakably, regardless of the extreme subtly of it all, a snuggle into his back.

 

"Besides, we're British. We understand being conservative with regards to affection."

 

"That, and queuing," Sherlock sighed, breath warm and humid against the back of John's neck. It took the blogger the full space of five minutes and a trip down to the loo after a promise to return was extracted from him, to realise what was happening. The weight of it feeling routine without actually ever being so caused him to need a bit of space to think it through a bit with a mind that was now fully awake. He made his way to the sofa, vaguely regretting not wearing his dressing gown in the chill of early morning, but couldn't yet face the situation in his room again.

 

'Luckily' Sherlock had decided to handle that bit for him when he sailed into the sitting room, John's olive drab counterpane, which was draped around him only over one shoulder as if he were some sort of Roman consulate member, billowing behind him. The mussed curls didn't at all counter the visual as he only needed a laurel-leaf crown to complete the picture. John had to lean his elbows on his thighs and put his head down in order to somehow rub some sense into it with his hands. Sherlock tossed John's mobile in a manner that had it land perfectly to his right before seating himself next to him on the other side, much as he had in Buckingham palace that other time, only much closer, the majority of their thighs touching. John didn't look up until after Sherlock spoke once more.

 

"They don't need you at the surgery today, if you don't feel like going in. Which is just as well. There's an obligation I must fulfill for Mycroft and it promises to be perfectly boring. At least if you're there, I'll have someone to talk to." John took up his phone at this point and began scrolling through it as if he'd be able to tell how Sherlock once again circumnavigated not only his password, but his fingerprint identification. He gave up almost immediately and just checked other messages, glancing intermittently over at his flatmate who was going through his own phone.

 

"Please tell me you wore pants in bed," John begged somewhat bashfully, feeling the heat in his cheeks as he stared at an old message then switched to a mindless game app. It was the only other thing he could handle at the moment.

 

"A couple wouldn't necessarily wear pants in bed together all the time," Sherlock replied lightly, causing John's back to go rigid as he stared straight ahead before slowly turning his gaze to Sherlock nonchalantly continuing on his mobile. "Perhaps under pyjamas or something, but I would imagine only when staying over at someone else's house or the weather's cooler. Even then, body heat would be more than sufficient in...Oh for God's sake, john of course I wore pants. Happy?" If he was honest, John wasn't quite sure what he was.

 

"I think, erm... I think will go in after all. Sorry, you'll be bored, Sherlock. Perhaps it'll help you finish quickly." John then fled everything, unable to stop thinking about how very... _right_  everything had felt before conscious thinking got involved. It wasn't like the logic wasn't sound. Sherlock was rather good at that bit, no matter how much faster his mind got to that point before everyone else's.

 

He was simultaneously excited and reluctant to get home, unsure of what he would find. But then, that was always the case, wasn't it?

 

He first smelled it when he opened the door to the building. At least Sherlock had eaten recently, going by the scent of the particularly strong curry Sherlock enjoyed most from the take away around the corner. Just lingering in his nose made his eyes water by the time he got to the top of the stairs to enter the sitting room. It was oddly devoid of any food that he could see. He called Sherlock's name as he put his keys in their place close to the door, but got no response at first, though he could clearly hear someone puttering around behind the closed sliding stained glass panels of the kitchen doors. Without thinking about it, he launched into the beginning of whatever they usually talked about when he got in, this time being a question of whether he should get more milk. Sherlock had once requested the curry so spicy that he'd burned his tongue because none of the milk in the house was viable at the time. He giggled to himself a bit about how Sherlock couldn't even stop talking after John had to carefully wrap his tongue to keep the salve in place. _'Ah az an extherament, Chawn'_

The words, however, died on his lips as he took off his jacket and noticed the table they rarely used for its intended purpose, efficiently set. He called out to his friend again, even louder this time, and was finally answered by a curled head popping through an opening in the kitchen doors.

 

"Ah! You're home. It'll be ready in a moment. Sit down. The wine will have breathed enough by now. Pour me one, would you?" Before John could say anything else, the door shut and he was once again left slightly dumbfounded. He finally got around to hanging up his coat on the back of the door next to Sherlock's famous one and could do nothing else other than what he was told. Moments after setting the significantly lighter wine bottle down and taking a long draw from his glass, Sherlock opened the doors wide, then turned to retrieve a platter piled high with what looked like wild rice and sauced meats. A regular dinner plate on which naan was stacked was beside it. Despite the sting, it smelled delectable. Sherlock placed both in the center of the table, behaving as if this was just something they _did_.  

 

"What's all this then," John asked with another long drink from his glass, nearly finishing it. Sherlock poured him another and then darted off again, only to reappear with a large tumbler of banana Lassi for each of them to at least take the edge of the spice and... a candle in an ornate silver holder. He lit the wick and took his own seat across from John.

 

"You left so quickly this morning that you neither had breakfast nor packed a lunch. That deli you like isn't open on Saturdays for religious purposes and I hadn't time to have something delivered to you as, just after you left, everything with Mycroft's thing went completely mad and I had to leave immediately whilst focusing on that and wasn't allowed to use my phone or the phone I was given to use to contact anyone not involved. I knew you'd be home early anyways and that you'd opt to just wait until you got in to have something. So I did a curry."

 

"I... You made this?"

 

"I just said so, didn't I? I can cook, John, it's simple science. I just usually have more important things to occupy my mind." 

 

"I'll just say thanks and not question anything." Sherlock gave a curt, satisfied nod, then intently watched John use the large spoon to put some of the concoction from his left onto his plate so he could take his first bite. It was incredibly pungent, but, as the smell indicated earlier, the flavour was just as intense, the play of herbs and spices balancing perfectly.  John nodded and gave Sherlock a reassuring smile even as his face grew reddish and he reached for the Lassi. "This is delicious. Even better than Sultan's Palace, I'd say." Sherlock returned a brief grin before digging in himself.

 

"I experimented with different meats," Sherlock was saying. "On your right there, that's bison, the center is Ayam Cemani, and the left is mutton. The heat goes up in intensity as you go across. I rather thought you'd start on the right as you normally do, despite being left-handed."

 

"Mm." John scooped a bit of the other two onto his dish and tore off a piece of naan with which to sop up the sauces. "It's fine. Get the worst of it out of the way early, I guess. What's Ay... Ayam...?"

 

"Ayam Cemani?"

 

"Yes that."

 

"The Indonesian black chicken. That isn't a cooking method, the feathers, skin, even the meat and organs are all actually the same colour as or darker than my coat. I had a bit of bother getting it. My Javanese is a rather rusty. At first they thought I wanted fish then they thought I wanted noodles. I finally had to show them a picture."

 

"I... Brilliant!" He glanced into the kitchen after an exchanged smirk and saw three huge pots on the table in there. "Looks like we'll be eating curry for the foreseeable future."

 

"Looks like. Of course, Mrs. Hudson will help with the least spicy one, and we can take some down to the Yard."

 

"Oh yeah. We should do that."

 

"And we'll give Lestrade the bison and Sally Donovan the spiciest one and not tell her." John nearly choked laughing, having to drink significantly more wine than he'd originally thought he'd need to get the tickle out of his throat. 

 

"Terrible!" John laughed, still hacking a bit.

 

"Yes. She is." After a quiet look across the table at each other, he burst into a second round of laughter, Sherlock properly joining in this time.

 

***

 

The next few weeks were a plethora of experiments John just... allowed to happen, at this point. None of them hurt or were too embarrassing, as they were only pretending. The tests and adjustments were conducted mostly in the flat, but sometimes, when they were walking somewhere, Sherlock would reach out and give his hand a squeeze, without even stopping whatever he was saying or not saying anything at all. After a while, John began reciprocating, behaving as he would in any relationship. He would playfully call Sherlock 'Babe', pet names a thing in which Sherlock refused to participate at first. However, once that initial(rather posh)'Darling' slipped out, it was established as John's title. Though, if he was to be completely honest with himself, the way Sherlock just said his name in different situations would convey, at least to him, a plethora of different emotions. At the moment, within their play, it was as good as any 'luv' or 'dear' or 'sweetheart'. The 'Darling' became that much more special because of it actually being said. 

 

They tried almost everything except for anything sexual. There were heads on shoulders or in laps, lingering squeezes or pats of limbs as they'd pass each other around the flat, and even chaste kisses on benign places such as temples or foreheads or hands. Sherlock would wrap his arms around John's waist as he made tea or a bite and sweetly rest his chin on John's right shoulder. John would do the same, except for on his head whilst he was bent over and experiment. They even found it much more convenient to sleep in Sherlock's room when they shared a bed, John going so far as to kip in there whenever he needed to, whether or not Sherlock was in. 

 

It was actually quite lovely. Sherlock was much more romantic than he liked to admit, acquiring for John strange little keepsakes or giving him weird yet thoughtful gifts, sometimes left in odd places. There had been an old book of healing from some ancient society, a WWI bayonet, and a new cleaning kit for his Browning among other things. Sherlock behaved himself more than usual when he was promised a head petting to help him think, or a new part with which to experiment. He purchased a fridge after all for his experiments and kept it in the bedroom, even going so far as to get a brand new one for the kitchen. John nearly kissed him on the mouth for that, as it was so very thoughtful of his Sherlock and when exactly had he started referring to Sherlock that way in his own mind?

 

As they crouched over the corpse of an unfortunate young runaway, Sherlock brilliantly recognised it in under four minutes as an unconventional murder, not an overdose. He rattled off his findings in his usual way, stripping off his protective gloves before turning with a flourish. Only this time he said, "Come along, Darling." John followed with a nod, as he didn't even realise what had just occurred, compounding it with his own,

 

"I think that was a new record, Babe." They shared a chuckle and a hand squeeze until, at the same moment, they stopped in their tracks. They simultaneously turned to face the predictably shocked faces. Well, some were shocked. Others had rather smug, knowing little smiles affixed.

 

"John and I are practicing pretending to be a couple in order to attend his school reunion," Sherlock explained, looking only at Lestrade. Sally stood to the Detective Inspector's right and opened her mouth to say something, only to have it completely covered by the meaty hand of her superior. "Apologies," Sherlock continued. "That display was rather unprofessional. Won't happen again. John?" He returned quickly to his original trajectory. 

 

"Sorry," John confirmed, before turning to catch up with a little jog.

 

Later on, after they'd awkwardly finished the evening part of the daily exercises they agreed to take on in order to look their best, Sherlock burned the pad of his left index finger, his yelped "Ouch!" the first actual word uttered in the flat since they got home. The awkwardness of their experimental reveal falling away, John was immediately there, running it under cold water and speaking soothingly as Sherlock hissed in pain. He applied some salve and a flexible plaster and gave the wound a little kiss. 

 

"You're alright," he said finally.

 

"Of course I am," Sherlock almost spat. John smiled indulgently at him and, as he shut the little kit they kept in the kitchen for just such occasions, Sherlock grabbed his head in both hands and kissed him. Hard. John was a bit surprised at himself for not recoiling, as that's what he expected to do if that ever occurred in that manner. He was a bit stiff at first, but quickly relaxed and kissed Sherlock back the way he was supposed to. He let Sherlock end it, per his own MO, as he found that everything was more pleasant when his partner felt the most in control of the situation. "I... I've noticed," Sherlock explained, stuttering ever so slightly, "that every time you're about to kiss me on the mouth, you stop. I tried presenting you with increasingly thoughtful gestures thinking perhaps you'd forget yourself a bit and just go for it, as I know you prefer to initiate, but... no dice."

 

"To be honest, I didn't think I was ready for it," he confessed.

 

"Perhaps, but is that not part of a relationship? Especially one in which sexual activity is implied?"

 

"You got me there." 

 

"For what it's worth, John, you didn't seem at all... not ready." John couldn't help his grin at the rare straightforward praise.

 

"I suppose one must be ready at all times for science."

 

"For science," Sherlock repeated as if it were a toast. It officially became one when they decided on a finger or two of a lovely single malt just after that.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Kissing Sherlock was an unexpected pleasure, the way his mouth was shaped, the way it felt, the different techniques they shared back and forth both through conversation and demonstration. Sherlock expected to experiment with it often and John was only too glad to help. He would always realise just how long it had been since he'd had a proper snog session, with no expectation of anything further at the moment and it fueled his fantasies in an almost aggressive fashion. He would only wank in his room, when Sherlock wasn't in, as it was still a bit strange that he now almost had to think of a bloke whilst doing so. To be fair, it _was_  Sherlock, a man like no other most people on the planet have ever met. He knew Sherlock knew what he was doing, but he thankfully never said anything about it, nor would he try and do anything other than kissing. Sometimes, as what could only have been reassurance, Sherlock would make a point of mentioning that it was all just a ruse, a pretend play that would have no meaning after it was over. Unless they encountered one of his old classmates later whether as a client or victim or John somehow found someone else willing to incorporate Sherlock into their life together.

 

Sometimes Sherlock would say he needed 'a break' from their pretense, and they'd go anywhere from several hours to several days as just flatmates and friends, just to see if they could do it. Of course they could, it didn't change the fact that John missed it very much. He thought Sherlock might have as well, but he was his usual stoic self and so John had little idea whether or not he was correct, despite knowing the man well. The week before the reunion, Sherlock proposed another break, as a way of sort of whetting their appetites for each other. His theory was that they would seem more in love if they denied themselves on top of having to behave more conservatively in public. 

 

He wasn't wrong. 

 

John was nearly crawling out of his skin with the desire to _just kiss_  the man. It was the longest they'd ever gone since the start of this thing and he wasn't convinced Sherlock wasn't cheating, sneaking in whilst he slept in his own room, per the parameters of their 'break'. John had always been a vivid dreamer, but this was even over the top for him. During these 'dreams' his arms were immobilized, yet he strangely never felt threatened. It was almost as if he was swaddled by his blankets as opposed to bound, comfortable and safe. Then the kissing would begin, too long to be a series of chaste pecks, too short to be a proper snog. He would always wake up gasping, his erection tenting the covers, and the distinct feeling of someone else having been there. He knew Sherlock's smell by then and, now that he was constantly closer to him than ever before, it tended to linger. However, he didn't smell it in his room unless it was deliberate. They didn't sleep up there and the only other time the fragrance would be so very present was if John 'snuck' an article of the consulting detective's clothing to aid his fantasies during his alone time. 

 

He came to the conclusion that if it was this bad when just pretending, a real relationship of this nature with Sherlock would be disastrous. John would probably lose his usefulness, unable to get anything accomplished with thoughts of romantic interludes constantly spreading to and stretching every corner of his mind.  He couldn't even fathom what taking Sherlock to bed would be like. Well, he could(more often than usual that week)but he'd never really know. He had to concentrate on being able to make a clean break when this was finished, somehow going back to how it was before. In theory it should have been easy, but he'd always been known as the heart of their partnership, unable to logic his way out of sentiment as easily as the mind bit.

 

A soft knock on the bathroom door broke him out of his wandering thoughts. This one was much nicer than his at home, all dark marbles and brilliant brass fixtures. But Sherlock had somehow acquired a rather expensive suite in the hotel where the reunion was taking place. Some higher-up owed him a favour of course, and he explained it as being good for the ruse for them to turn the whole thing into a mini holiday. It made perfect sense.

 

"John?" came the rather velvet voice, raised slightly in order to more adequately penetrate the barrier, "I know it's spacious in there and you're quite small, but I'd think your military training enough to allow you to be able to navigate-" John yanked open the door and was kissing him before he even fully stepped over the threshold, nearly toppling them over. It had the desired effects, shutting up Sherlock Holmes and subsequently, turning him into putty as the man sagged comfortably in his arms. Yep. He still had it. When John released him, Sherlock stumbled backward a bit and fumbled with his jacket button, clearing his throat.

 

"Just needed to take the edge off," John explained, going over to the full-length mirror to make sure his hair sat correctly and ribbons were straight on his chest. Sherlock had somehow talked him into getting permission  to wear his uniform, an allowance that was expedited thanks to a certain sibling. He could barely squeeze into it when they started, but exercise on top of the rigorous activity of solving cases had tightened him up a bit in all the right places. He had the rare pleasure of catching Sherlock staring at him through their mirrored reflections. He knew it was unintentional because Sherlock hurriedly snatched his eyes back to his cuffs and jacket hem. "Ready, Babe?" John offered his arm. Sherlock threaded his through and allowed himself to be lead down to the hall in which the introduction dinner was taking place.

 

John couldn't help his nerves as they approached the table outside the doors to the dining room, but it helped tremendously that Sherlock seemed a bit nervous himself. It triggered John's caregiver mode and it was automatic, his releasing Sherlock's arm to place a comfortingly escorting hand at the small of the man's back, his encouraging smile which Sherlock immediately returned.

 

"John bloody Watson! As I live and breathe! You certainly look smart in your Army uniform." John remembered the woman being naturally blonde, though not the colour she currently sported from a box. Her hair did curl delightfully as a teen, but the straight, shoulder-length locks complemented her more mature visage. Her lips were the same, though, rather plump and still stained pink with the same lip gloss that John knew tasted like cherries and petroleum gel. John guessed before looking at her name badge, a tiny surge of excitement at being correct putting a bit extra into his smile.

 

"Hello, Margie," he said, accepting the continental dual cheek kiss greeting after the woman practically knocked the table over getting around it with what was a massive belly. "You didn't have to get up," he indicated by gesturing to her form.

 

"Fifth and last," she swore. "Any minute now. But I couldn't miss out on this. Johnny, my eldest, is actually attending our old Alma Mater next year."

 

"Congratulations," John said smoothly, exchanging a look with Sherlock during which Sherlock also raised his eyebrow at the child's name. "This is-"

 

"Oh I _know_  who this is. We all do. Everyone follows your blog. It's almost like we know you, Sherlock Holmes. Where did you attend secondary?"

 

"Harrow," Sherlock answered, forcing a smile. John looked at him wide-eyed for a moment, but covered it up with a light pat on Sherlock's back and another genuine smile.

 

Between making sure he was fully prepared to sit difficult exams and vouchers, John's mother, raising two hot-headed kids on her own, had to fight for every penny to send him to Kingsbury, so he never took it for granted. "Smarter than most of the teachers, he was," John commented proudly, imagining the greatest possibility. 

 

"Well of course you were," she said. Of course he was. Probably. "That's practically down the road from us," Margie continued. It was a bit titillating and very slightly disappointing to think, though a few years his junior, he may have come across a young Sherlock Holmes much sooner in life. Maybe even right around the time of that Carl Powers boy. The most trouble he ever got into was defending someone who was getting picked on by beating the bully into the ground, and even that went away since he was very careful to drag the boy just off campus in order to carry out justice. The trust fund wanker's father tried everything to intimidate the school into expelling him, but John had endeared himself to nearly everyone, staff and student alike and got off with a warning. The warning was to take him farther away so no one's time would be wasted again, and punctuated with a secret wink from the head teacher at which he refused to smile outwardly, though his insides were. The boy ended up going to Harrow the next term, and suddenly, if Sherlock was anywhere around at the time, John was sorry to have thrown another potential Sebastian Wilkes into his path. The man had enough trouble as an adult, so it was difficult to imagine the navigation of all of that brain power plus the hormonal tsunami that was the teen years. John may have taken up drugs too, in that situation. 

 

"Yes I recall a bit of a friendly rivalry going on," said Sherlock, in a tone that denoted a playful nudge without physically doing so. He did lean toward her a bit, just not in the looming manner he used to intimidate people into giving him the information he wanted. 

 

"Well, I suppose you can be forgiven just this once. It's good to finally meet you face to face, Mr. Holmes."

 

"Sherlock. Please." For reasons that no mere mortal could understand, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and asked if she'd like her photo taken with John. She eagerly complied and after, Sherlock himself helped her back to her seat. She opened one of several canvas hold-all bags which bore the school crest and were displayed on the table, and extracted a booklet. She produced a yellow highlighter and flipped through the pages, explaining that the booklet contained everyone's contact information before highlighting her own. 

 

"I'd like a copy of that as soon as possible."

 

"Of course. As soon as we're properly seated," Sherlock promised, watching her replace the booklet and hand John the hold-all. They acquired their name badges, each pinning the others on and once again linked arms to for the short walk into the dining area. Their badges had numbers on them to indicate where they were to sit and, as the door slowly closed behind them, they searched the room for the matching one, Sherlock of course spotting it first as John was playing his role of only having eyes for him. Yes, that was why. "Why are you looking at me like that?" He walked along with Sherlock without paying attention to where they were going.

 

"Like what?"

 

"Like all... wistfully... There was little chance we would have met earlier because as often as possible, I avoided areas outside my rooms and the campus altogether during holidays."

 

"How did you know what I'd been thinking about?" Sherlock's reply was a look from beneath his eyebrows that made John laugh. They took their seats, the other eight seats still empty. He looked over Sherlock's shoulder as he sent the photo and smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw line.

 

"She wishes that baby was yours," Sherlock said from nowhere, now scrolling through his own emails.

 

"Who? Margie? Of course not."

 

"Really, _Johnny_?" They shared a bit of a chuckle over that.

 

"We only dated briefly. I never even had sex with her."

 

"You apparently don't have to." John was reasonably sure Sherlock wasn't talking about them. "Your very name seems to inspire pregnancies. Besides she's recently separated from her children's father and still carries a torch for you. Probably has all these years, and though she'd probably never act on it, and has given him nearly three healthy children with whom they've built a life, the husband finally got tired of playing second fiddle to a high school memory.

 

"You can't actually believe that?"

 

"People have been known to do the silliest things in the name of sentiment. We deal with it all the time."

 

"Jealous?" John smirked jocularly, having to somehow get rid of the tiny seed of tension he felt at the bit of uncertainty regarding what may have been peeking out between the lines.

 

"What? That would be ridiculous!"

 

"You didn't say no," he teased, the exchange not helping him clear the vagueness. It was suddenly Sherlock's turn to kiss John senseless. He was very much caught off guard by it, but almost instantly fought back with all the ammunition in his arsenal. That which was appropriated for public, anyway. At least _appeared_  so. During their practice exploration of the kissing part of their 'relationship' within the confines of their own home, John discovered a particular sound Sherlock would make. It was extremely light despite being low and way in the back of his throat. One would miss it if one wasn't looking for it or hadn't been repeatedly exposed to the phenomenon. It was similar to a very short purr and indicated that Sherlock had an erection. 

 

They'd long gotten over John getting hard due to a snog session, but Sherlock still seemed embarrassed every time it happened to him, becoming defensive as was his go to when he was somewhat uncertain about something. John understood. It was more difficult for Sherlock than most when he wasn't in complete control of his body. Whether it was exploring his Mind Palace, or consuming substances, he had to be in charge of every aspect of every thing. John figured it was how he survived so much physical abuse, simply _willing_  his body to fall in line. That aspect still scared the hell out of John, the one where Sherlock would run headlong into danger because he simply believed there was no way he wouldn't somehow survive, especially now that he had militaristic medical assistance on-call.

 

So John enjoyed learning of this a bit more than some other things. The sound had come up earlier when he kissed him before leaving their room and the thought first gave him pleasure then gave him pause, though he wasn't yet sure why. Finishing up the volley, he stared at Sherlock's face, unable to decide whether or not to look into his eyes or at his pinked mouth. _L_ _ook what I've done,_  was the proud thought in the back of his mind."Did she just walk in or something?" Sherlock immediately went back to his phone, nonchalantly returning a text.

 

"No, everyone was staring at us and I wanted them to stop. As open-minded as some of these claim to be, even those who only feel that way toward others with some sort of power and/or celebrity that may be exploited in their favour, a gay couple publicly snogging will make them look away eventually."

 

"Really?"

 

"Every time." That's what it was. John had heard The Sound when he shouldn't have been able to in a room full of chatting people.

 

"Well it was nice, anyway," he commented, squeezing Sherlock's upper thigh where his hand had been resting before offering to fetch them each a glass of wine, since the servers were otherwise occupied preparing to bring out the meal.

 

"Go ahead, but I probably won't drink the whole thing."

 

"I've enough room for the both of us I think," he said, frowning briefly into the distance as the phrase sounded like innuendo, but not quite. Sherlock turned to him, following his far off eyeline. Without thinking about it, his eyes had settled on Margie, who was asking a question of a taller woman in a striking deep blue dress.

 

"She wasn't in here when we started," Sherlock attested, then stood up and buttoned his jacket. John automatically stood as well, though he'd planned on doing so anyway and once again marveled a little at how in tune he was with the other man. 

 

"Okay. So you're not jealous, but you're suddenly coming with me to the bar now that she's in the room."

 

"John we have to take every opportunity to be seen together."

 

"That's your story and you're sticking to it?"

 

"John, what on earth are you-"

 

"It's a song that- Never mind, alright? Come on, Babe." 

 

As predicted, Sherlock stopped them in front of Margie to pronounce the photo sent and how he looked forward to sending others if she was so inclined. She of course accepted and, as a 'joke', Sherlock pressed his lips to the cheek nearest to him and snapped a 'Selfie' before sending it. The woman to whom she was talking also wanted a photo of the happy couple and, before they knew it, they were surrounded by droves of amateur paparazzi and interviewers that followed them back to their seats, those assigned to their table sitting down now that first contact had been established.

 

The questions were exactly what Sherlock had anticipated. He suggested that his being overly clingy would poke too many holes in the ruse and so held back on much of the former PDA. He just kept his free left hand on John's thigh as John kept his right one on Sherlock's. But that was under the table, though it must have given everyone an air of their very togetherness. John fielded most of the emotional questions, Sherlock more sociable than ever, but still rather quiet in comparison to how other conversations with him went. He spoke up mostly to steer the rabid questioners away from the more painful bits surrounding of John's time in the military, his injury, how he felt after Sherlock... went away for several years, etc. 

 

They were rescued by the eating and speech portions of the evening, though they were of course heavily featured. Unfortunately, local celebrity was seen as a higher level of success than those who actually did more for the world. Not that their contribution was minor in any way, shape, or form. John was indeed very proud of what they'd achieved, even more so of the many things they'd done that weren't general knowledge. But everyone seemed so much more interested in their name rather than deeds.

 

"It's human nature," Sherlock explained in a whisper, his breath humid in John's ear, though not unpleasant. "Still appalling, though." He settled back again in his seat after a playful lobe nip, John probably making his own sound, this one more surprised than anything else at how quickly he went to half mast at that small action. Sherlock had surprisingly drunk every glass of wine poured, and John grudgingly admitted he had a hard time keeping up. They slipped out just before the end of everything, including right before the last of the alcohol hit John's system. 

 

They walked to the lifts as carefully as possible, barely brushing arms, but fell on each other as soon as the doors began to close. He thought to at least mention the cameras most likely present, but Sherlock's declaration that cited how the figurative meter with which he measured his ability to provide metaphorical congress was no longer operational, easily pushed any negativity out of John's mind. It wasn't as if they had their cocks out or anything, though before they got to their door, it was an extremely near thing, the way his was straining against his flies. He noticed Sherlock in the same predicament, and took special note of how his kisses grew impossibly deeper when several others from the reunion showed on their floor. Sherlock fumbled with the key card and bundled him into the room as they attempted to quiet their giggles between kisses, John grabbing the front of the man's expensive shirt and yanking him inside. The consulting detective then allowed a few more seconds, during which the new and titillating element of grinding a bit was implemented, before breaking off to make his way to the bedroom whilst John retrieved a few £10 water bottles. What the hell, this was all on Mycroft anyways.

 

He shook his head fondly at the trail of clothing Sherlock left leading up to the most luxurious bed he'd ever had the pleasure of slipping between the sheets of, but couldn't do the same with his uniform. He'd hang it up properly and tidy Sherlock's as usual tomorrow. Sherlock lay upright, bare chest barely more beige than than the all white colour scheme, all lean muscle and lightly peppered with hairs that were surprisingly ginger-ish. He was rifling through the complimentary hold-all with one hand and texting with the other.

 

"Oi! Get this down you," John directed tossing one of the bottles that surprisingly landed perfectly between the man's knees before downing half of another one in one go. He let the others fall onto the corner of the bed closest to him and began cautiously undressing as he watched Sherlock open his bottle one-handed and take rather dainty sips. He was beginning to suspect that Sherlock may not have been as drunk as he was behaving earlier, but then that wouldn't leave no explanation for the new development in their intimate contact introduced earlier. He re-sheathed his uniform in the garment bag and retrieved a couple paracetamol packets. He took his and removed Sherlock's from the other before having a piss and returning to the bedside.

 

"Don't make any plans between activities tomorrow," Sherlock mentioned. "There's an official brunch, but we won't be attending. We will instead order room service. A bit of brekkie in bed for the lovers." He briefly waggled his eyebrows in a cheeky manner to match the tone used in the last sentence and John grinned, now sipping his own water as he finally experienced the opulence of the bed as he usually did things, side by side with his best mate. 

 

"Right."

 

"We'll then join everyone for the coach ride to the campus tour and family picnic."

 

"Yes." John turned onto his right side and slipped down into the mounds of cloud-like covers, leaning his temple against the fist still containing Sherlock's dose as he gazed at his flatmate cum business partner cum best friend cum fake romantic partner. His profile as he concentrated was fascinating, the small constellation of moles on the side of his neck and jaw-line intriguing. His chest rising and falling, tremoring ever so slightly with the strong beat of his heart, the heart John swore had ceased not very long before that. That's what a man in love would be thinking anyway, his mind automatically supplied in these cases. So as not to be as forward as he wished and interrupt Sherlock's movements, John began slowly trailing the fingers of his empty left hand along Sherlock's arm, from wrist to bicep to shoulder, to those beauty marks. He didn't stop talking, only slowed, seemingly leaning in to the caresses and taking deeper, more relaxed breaths.

 

"Between that and the... prom-themed dance we'll have a few hours of free time, during which I've booked us appointments in the spa. We're going to be seen as spoiling each other."

 

"Mm, sounds lovely."

 

"Doesn't it just? The next day, we... have... John, what are you doing?" John had sat back up, pushed the papers and bag off the bed, plucked Sherlock's phone from his long-lithe fingers, and put it gently aside on the bedside table, before straddling his lap. 

 

"You're not drinking your water," he said lightly, though his tongue was a bit too big for his mouth. He decided, in his rather slowed mind, that it would probably be more easily contained if shared between two mouths. John pushed the little pain relief pills between those shapely pink lips, took a long pull off of his water bottle, and lowered his mouth onto Sherlock's. Once their lips were properly sealed together, he slowly pushed the water into Sherlock's mouth until his tongue was in there and the water, pills and all were swallowed. With another deep kiss, he sat back a bit, satisfied with Sherlock's erection indicator going off, and pulled the silver chain, the only other thing John wore besides pants, from around his neck over his head. He looped it over Sherlock's and indulged in digging into the raven coils and waves for a bit whilst he kissed him once more.

 

"Your dog tags, John," Sherlock said, seemingly unsure of what else to say.

 

"Yep," John nodded slowly. Too fast would have made the room spin, yet holding onto Sherlock's head, staring into his remarkably jeweled eyes, grounded him and made it worse all at once. "You are the most brilliant, clever, beautiful hearted man I've ever known. If you consent to be my husband, I'll swear on anything you hold dear to spend the rest of my life, trying as hard as I can to be worthy of you."  

 

Sherlock blinked at him for what seemed like ages, though John was content to let him. He thought so, anyway, finally he had to prompt him. 

 

"Please say something."

 

"Oh God yes." 

 

The next kiss put him on his back, pulling Sherlock as close as possible. The grinding returned, frustratingly non-rhythmic, but loads better than nothing. Sherlock was praising him and he cursed the fact that he was too drunk to make out completely what was being said. Something about his being brilliant to come up with a proposal speech to feed their cloyingly romantic engagement story. Which is of course what he was doing. 

 

"I could... take care of that for you," Sherlock said very clearly this time. It was the meaning as opposed to the words that eluded John this time.

 

"Take care of what?" Sherlock reached between them and squeezed gently, ratcheting John's erection from somewhat intense to extreme.

 

"Yeah. God yeah," came the reply before he could properly think. They were already going further than ever and they were more than under the influence. The basement of influence. The _sub-_ basement of influence, if that was possible, yet he still didn't think he could do it. "Wait no. No no no nyooo wait! This is just.... It's... We're too..." His sentences kept getting cut off by a suck on the neck here and a brush of the nipple there. It was frustratingly erotic, the way Sherlock seemed to be extending everything. But it at least gave John time to attempt to sort things out in his head a bit.

 

"Don't worry about it ending quickly," Sherlock stated. "We've had enough alcohol to delay the ending and, if you're still reluctant, you probably won't actually remember anything tomorrow until I begin telling you about it. Which I may or may not do, depending on what I think would be best."

 

"You don't... you have no idea what's best in this case," John protested.

 

"But hear me out, John," Sherlock said before applying another body-melting kiss to his mouth. It was a terribly convincing counter, yet John again resisted, though by the skin of his teeth.

 

Until the begging.

 

Oh God, the begging.

 

"Please, John. I won't go any further without your express permission, but know that I very much want to. Please. My John, my Darling, please?" This new development, accompanied by his special pet name purred, octopus-like pawing, and sensuous feline-ish licking in areas seemingly designated for maximum convincing power pushed him right over the edge of the hedonism he couldn't quite bring himself to feel guilty about in the moment.


	4. New Bugatti

 

His eyes popped open with only swatches of memory. Even those few hazy thoughts were enough to get him from filling to fully erect before he could figure out he needed the toilet. It was the only unfortunate thing he could think of, besides his breath and discovering he was alone in the massive bed with dried come in his pants and on his abdomen. He would have been a bit grossed out if it wasn't a reminder of whatever happened between them the night before. 

 

He stretched as he smiled, waking up enough to notice the wet wipes, water, and breath drops on his bedside table. Yet another demonstration of Sherlock's sweetness, however feigned, served him well in getting him motivated enough to try for the bathroom. But for a bit of a heavy feeling in his limbs, there was no hangover for him to speak of, despite over-doing it. He returned to the gorgeous scene of Sherlock in just his underwear, uncovering things on a massive trolley that reminded him of the energy spent in pleasuring each other the night before.

 

"Good morning! I didn't know what to get so I got a bit of everything I know you like. In you go, John, so that you can get started. With a few more drops of breath freshener, John had circumnavigated the bed in order to kiss Sherlock soundly. He'd been sampling something smoked and glazed and he was delicious. John slipped into the bed from that side and moved over to make room. Sherlock spooned and forked things onto a rather large plate and placed it on a tray along with flatware and a linen napkin retrieved from a shelf underneath. "This is better fare than what the others are getting," Sherlock explained, handing John the tray and carefully joining him again. His thigh, cooled by the air as it slid against John's tickled slightly. "There's a caterer amongst your old classmates who insisted on contributing their efforts toward the meals, but the hotel's food is much better. Especially ours."

 

"You know the chef, I'd wager." John set the orange juice on the provided coaster on the beside table so there would be less of a chance of spillage.

 

"Close, but no cigar, I'm afraid. I know his mentor's style. Also, he has an interesting surname."

 

"And what's that? Oh! Mmm! This is the best thing I've put in my mouth. Well, second best." Sherlock made a grand show of slightly blushing. His coy little smile was perfectly executed. If this went on too much longer, this mutually beneficial sham, John was convinced it would be the death of him. But then, there were infinitely worse ways to go...

 

"Lestrade." John looked at him, eyes wide, yet still unable to stop chewing.

 

"Really?"

 

"Yep." Sherlock got back on his phone, but still continued the conversation.

 

"You're kidding! Any relation?" Sherlock handed him a glossed card on which the menu and a bit about the food services of the hotel was printed, then pointed to one of the portraits. The same toothy grin, the same face shape and silvered hair, as well as dark eyes. "That's mad!"

 

"Mm." Sherlock agreed, briefly raising his eyebrows at his mobile screen before pushing his arm around John's shoulders and snapping a photo of them with their temples resting on each other, John unable to help smiling. Especially when the second one was with Sherlock's lips pressed to where his head had been the moment before, in the natural full sunlight streaming through the picture window. They made a rather handsome couple, if he did say so himself. And he did. Sherlock only smirked and got back to the business of making their relationship look as real as possible to the masses. John attempted to enjoy the interaction without getting pulled into the artifice himself. It was becoming increasingly difficult as time went on. As Sherlock switched to his laptop, John's own phone, which he hadn't remembered plugging in to charge, vibrated. He looked at it.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"Mm?"

 

"When did we get an Instagram... and all these others?" Dozens of notification icons, some the same, some different, marched across the top of the lock screen. When he swiped it open, previews of the notifications popped up along with the related icons.

 

"Oh! I've made all sorts of social media pages for us. We also have a wedding planning site. Thinking about going through with it for the Bugatti Vera alone."

 

"What?"

 

"It's only the Rolls Royce of tea kettles. There are temperature controls, a keep warm setting, a _timer_ , and, it looks magnificent." He tilted the laptop a bit more toward John to show him as he continued checking things. John had to admit, the appliance was stunning. It was the kind of thing bored people with too much money and time on their hands would redecorate their kitchen around. Instead of making sure Sherlock wouldn't(because who knew with him sometimes?) he just continued to look over the description.

 

"How many have you registered for?"

 

"A baker's dozen. I figured the extra ones would be good for experiments." John scrolled down the page a bit.

 

"Oh my God, Sherlock, they're £200 each!"

 

"And?" The funniest bit was that he genuinely didn't see the problem, nor did he care to explain without being asked. John could only laugh, kiss him, and force a croissant spread heavily with strawberry preserves into his gullet, as well as pretend not to notice when bites of sausage, bacon, or egg he left on the fork as he did a quick email check went missing from his plate.    
  
They took their time with the tea, going over plans of action, playfully arguing over some of John's phrasing in some of his blog entries or whether or not they were going to return the gorgeous and expensive full dining set or give it to Mrs. Hudson to help replace all the dishes of hers lost or otherwise contaminated. They took turns with long, hot showers John coming out from his to an impeccably dressed Sherlock and what could only be his clothes laid out. Only they were a brand new Navy blue button up with pearled buttons and a pair of the most comfortable dark denim jeans he'd ever experienced, though a bit snug-fitting.

 

"Now for the final touch."

 

"Am I not good looking enough for you yet?" John teased, just as Sherlock was lifting his collar and wrapping a strip of black material around the back of John's neck over it. Sherlock stopped dead still and stared into his eyes assessingly. 

 

"John, you're beautiful. You always have been." 

 

It was said in a matter-of-fact manner that gave John pause. Sherlock couldn't actually see John that way. He didn't even really work that way. It was all part of the play and John just needed to get out of his head about it. Interaction with the outside world always helped with that, and so he accepted the sweet kiss that followed and let him finish doing up his tie emblazoned with the school crest so they could catch the coach with the rest of the reunion-goers. It gave him the warmest feeling to see a bit of the metal chain of his tags poking from beneath Sherlock's crisp collar, hear the metal disks clink and slide against each other softly with more extreme movements. 

 

The longer John thought about it, the more he began doubting everything. He knew he was pretty much a gentleman no matter the level of sobriety he encountered. He also had been complicit in role play in which he wasn't to behave so gentlemanly. It was basically about respect and care. However, there was such an animalistic quality to the few memories he had of the night before. While Sherlock seemed a willing, even eager participant, he couldn't help but think of his own fumbling advances. He couldn't have been very gentle, as his desires finally getting the best of him was overwhelming. However, he remembered seeing no scratches, love bites, or other bruising when Sherlock was mostly nude that morning, and felt guilty that even just that picture of him standing in sunlight in snug black boxer briefs stirred him a bit.

 

John attempted to throw himself into the farce even more, to see if that helped. He clutched Sherlock's hand and pointed out what had changed and what remained the same since he'd been a student and joked around more with old sports mates who had done well for themselves in high-paying positions in which a lot of exotic travel was involved. As a precaution, he was much more gentle with Sherlock, as he worked out whether or not he had reason to. Sherlock returned the soft, rather chaste kisses and touches, but demonstrated how not fooled he was when he pulled the ex-soldier aside to ask what was wrong. John was reluctant to answer at first, merely shrugging. Sherlock tugged him behind a tree and leaned back against it, placing a hand on either side of John's jaw to pull him close. John fell much farther into the kiss than he'd planned, but that was the underlying theme to everything he did with Sherlock. No matter what limits he set on how far he'd go, John always ended up in much deeper than anticipated, and strangely not sorry for it, given his current reservations.

 

"That was the first proper kiss you've given me since we got here," Sherlock mentioned. "Normally, we'd be slipping away to snog at every opportunity. I'm sure there's a cupboard or two you wouldn't mind showing me, for old time's sake." It was so odd that they now had a snogging 'norm' and what he came to label as Sherlock's Private Smile surfaced, making him feel a bit more jittery, but in a pleasanter way.  He put his left hand over Sherlock's right as it remained on his face and rubbed the back with his thumb.

 

"It's just... I can't help but feel that I've taken advantage of you somehow."

 

"I see." Sherlock looked a bit far away, but thankfully didn't remove his hands, so John knew he was still listening, just going into analysis mode.

 

"I mean, yeah we were both pretty drunk but I don't think you were as drunk as I was. The things we... It couldn't have been very comfortable when I had so little control over myself."

 

"Is that all?"

 

"What do you mean, 'is that all'?" His Sherlock impression wasn't nearly as spot on as Sherlock's John one, but he only ever used it when he was agitated.

 

"I meant exactly what I said, John. If it will make you feel any better, I'll confess that we didn't actually do anything significantly more than usual last night." John perked right up, his face fraught with confusion, hope, and a tiny bit of disappointment that came out of nowhere.

 

"You mean we didn't...?"

 

"Nope." Sherlock exaggerated the 'p' sound. "Not as such."

 

"Huh." John then sighed, relieved though the dash of disappointment remained for whatever reason. "I should have known you weren't actually drunk or didn't beg," he grinned up at him.

 

"Oh I... I did beg." It was definitely a blush now, deep pink and adorable as his eyes darted about, landing on anything but John's. "I'm not proud of it. Perhaps I was more affected by the wine than I'd thought. However, whatever our desires, they lost to alcohol, as you passed out before we could even... properly start. Although I did rather like witnessing you having a little less control than usual."

 

"And I you, if I'm honest. You saying you're not proud of it implies it just sort of happened. The begging bit, I mean. It was rather... yeah."

 

"You did maintain your erection, you know."

 

"Did I?"

 

"Yes. regardless of the amount you'd consumed. And I didn't object to your sleep-grinding against my own to both of our completions as I was mostly asleep as well. But we never actually engaged in all the activities you must have dreamed." John sighed once more. He hadn't harmed Sherlock with over-zealous drunken passion and had still somehow managed to get off in a manner in keeping with their rather juvenile approach to maintaining an air of sexual closeness. Snogging and dry-humping were the go-tos of his own youth at least. He'd no idea about Sherlock's but perhaps that was a conversation for another time. Now was a time for a bit of inner celebration. He hadn't harmed Sherlock on accident.

 

"I... I'm not sure what to say."

 

"Well for God's sake don't apologise and stop moping. I swear you're the only idiot in the world who thinks they've taken advantage of someone else by being the more incapacitated of the two. We were both at the exact same level of faculty use when anything did happen."

 

"I am kind of disappointed that our first mutual orgasm was when we were asleep."

 

"We'd have never done it if we weren't."

 

"Touché."

 

From that point on, John felt as if there was a great burden lifted from his shoulders, though he wasn't quite sure what the actual basis had been. When put in the special way Sherlock had of putting things, usually involving a derivative of the word 'idiot', it did seem a bit silly. And they'd shared an actual orgasm by which Sherlock didn't seem negatively affected in the least. John knew he wasn't, except for the bit where this was all nonsense, despite Sherlock's confession of... begging. To counteract the unexplained cynicism he felt coming up, he became more genuinely socially engaged. Even as he noticed Sherlock becoming less so.

 

There were several large barbecue pits just outside the canteen, but the meal was being served indoors, complete with dinner ladies making a bit of extra scratch on a Saturday near the end of term. It was a sight, Sherlock engaging in his version of cooing at the toddler in John's arms as they stood around the play structure at the park adjacent to campus, the same in which he'd taken care of the bully those years ago. Sherlock's baby talk involved various explanations of things in the Queen's English, though in a higher register, that would be inappropriate if the child could understand anything he said. Not that the ability to understand prevented him from doing so with an older one, but John would have at least said something in that case.

 

"Children make life worth living," the child's father commented to John's unexpected chagrin. He wasn't positive whether he was predicting further ignorance or the statement hitting too close to home. He didn't suppose, at this point, there'd every be children of his in the future. "Don't suppose your parents hold out much hope for this, eh?" Mick Jones was really trying to be tolerant at the very least. He truly didn't understand attraction, however most didn't as much as they thought they did. John could find Sherlock attractive in every way and not be gay. Then again Sherlock tended to cross a lot of lines when it came to John's notions of himself. He was just that remarkable. The genuineness of Mick's misunderstanding was the only thing keeping his teeth in his head. Sherlock exchanged a look with him. It's almost as if he understood the conflict. Sherlock's Private Smile prompted John to speak first.

 

"Seeing as how my parents are dead, Mick, I don't see them much having an opinion on the subject." Sherlock plucked the child from John's grasp, and handed her back, but not without a discreet nose to her hair he probably thought John didn't see.

 

"Not to mention there are options such as surrogacy and adoption available to couples like ourselves and my parents are quite looking forward to our slowing down enough with our wildly successful business in order to consider the options. John, I'm bored." Sherlock stormed off as usual, the only difference being he pulled John along with him by the hand instead of just walking a bit slower in order to allow him to catch up. The latter man overheard the child's mother scolding Mick for whatever he said to obviously offend them. They went in the direction of the head organizer to let her know they were opting for an early cab back to the hotel, as they had plans to take advantage of the place's amenities. She winked at them and Sherlock worked his taxi-hailing magic, where it was as if one was on call exclusively for him, as they slightly swung their joined hands between them.

 

His oddly attractive face fell when they got in and situated, however, as if he'd just remembered whatever was making him withdraw before. John briefly lay the back of the fingers of his dominant left hand on one of those impressive cheekbones, in order to cause the least amount of discomfort for everyone involved, yet still express how very much he cared about the answer to his question, 

 

"Alright?"

 

"Hm? Why wouldn't I be?" He could possibly have sounded more offended, but it would have been a difficult task. Used to it, John just smiled warmly.

 

"I don't know. You seem a bit..." Sherlock was beginning to properly shut down and John couldn't have that. "You really liked that baby," he somewhat teased. It had somewhat the desired effect.

 

"Don't be ridiculous, John. She was a baby. Babies don't actually _do_ anything."

 

"But make you smile and smell good."

 

"She smelled horrid," Sherlock sniffed, as if remembering. "It was the main reason I handed her over."

 

"And smelled her head."

 

"I was... working out the chemical composition of-"

 

"Alright, Einstein, I'll leave it," John smirked, acknowledging how he didn't call her 'it' as he would if he was completely separating himself from the experience. However he was dissatisfied that it wasn't the entire explanation. Something else was up, though the signs were extremely subtle. Well subtle for most others. 

 

John basically dragged them through the spa visit which, but for the way Sherlock's attitude about being pampered in that instance had changed oddly for the worse, was incredibly rejuvenating. Especially after the nap the massage brought on. The consulting detective's poor attitude continued through dressing for the prom-themed dinner dance. Their tuxedos matched in all but the velour jacket colour. John's was a decadent blue, darker than even the shirt he wore that day, and Sherlock's was the colour of de-oxygenated blood, a deep blue-based red. Their lapels, trim, slacks, bow tie and shoes were black, whilst their shirts a crisp white. The ensemble was another 'gift' from Sherlock 'for keeping up appearances'. Regardless of Sherlock's pouting, John caught him looking several times as he stood in the full length mirror arranging his jacket and his now more silver than gold hair so it fell just so. John wasn't subtle at all about his admiration.

 

"You look gorgeous, Babe," he praised, Sherlock only responding with preening when John turned back to the mirror so as not to destroy his brooding image. John then went to stand in front of him for one last assessment, holding his hands out in presentation.

 

"You'll do," came the trite response, though the eyes shone. 

 

Sherlock was a terror at the disco, though fortunately, a private one. He had to be bribed with a human body part to take the requisite photo and refused to dance or let John dance with anyone else. He still accepted John's tender touches and kisses, but didn't really return them. He only let John out of his sight to bring them more drinks and nibbles, or the one time he needed the loo. John drew the line at going in with him, at which Sherlock scoffed and poked his lip out further before going in alone. As he waited, John perused the memorabilia mural, which was a collage of dozens of photos, including copies of original prom photos, patches, and on the tables in front of it various trophies and knick-knacks from their era. 

 

Marceline McDonald was everything her name suggested and then some. She was tall and slim and pale and smoked Lucky Strikes with a sinful mouth almost always painted crimson to match her finger and toe nails. She died her ginger hair black and always sported a severe bob. Whenever it seemed she would get clocked for rebellious behaviour, she would almost nonchalantly excel with any task put to her. It would anger a handful, but fascinate the rest, including one young John Hamish Watson. He was quietly obsessed with her, putting up a front as most of his mates did about which body parts they would give up just to shag her. He wasn't interested in just sex, however prominent the subject was in his mind.

 

So when she decided out of the blue that John would be hers for as long as would amuse her, it was a huge surprise to find out she was a virgin, and extremely spiritual, if not religious. She wasn't saving herself for marriage or anything, just someone worthy. Apparently John was that worthy one and they spent the remaining months through graduation in what could only be described as a torrid affair. They wouldn't always have sex, but when they did, she would always make it memorable in some way. They wouldn't just do things together, they would _feel_  things together. 

 

But secondary school fancies don't usually translate well into full fledged adult relationships. Luckily they were just mature enough to know this and so made sure to say good bye in as complete a way as possible before she moved to the French part of her ancestral homelands and he went for Medical training then the military. She wrote him once whilst he was in, a long letter he still kept in his small box of important things. He didn't cry over it until that dark time when Sherlock was gone, and the rest of the world seemed to abandon him, though it had actually been him doing the abandoning.

 

"John," came the woman's smooth voice as if right out of the photo, the 'J' ever so slightly softened by the French inflection embedded in her language centers in the womb.

 

"Marceline. I saw your name on the roster but I didn't think you'd made it." He had to admit the spark of excitement at seeing her again as well as the surprising lack of disappointment when she never turned up. At first he'd been so distracted by his current 'lover', and after that it was more of a relief that he wouldn't have to deal with attempting to decipher Sherlock's mood toward her, especially the way it was now. They kissed each other's cheeks. She smelled of lavender and cigarettes, just as she did before, the same stark lips and piercing blue eyes, but her hair was even shorter and slicked back, though she'd finally allowed her natural curl to remain. It seemed lacquered into the unmoving finger waves. Her dress had thin, crystal lined straps and flowed down her frame to the knee where the fringe began mid-calf. But for a long cigarette holder and gloves, she looked every inch the flapper girl, though somehow, non-ironically. 

 

"I made sure to get in just in time for this," she explained. 

 

"You look beautiful. You've hardly aged a day. Unlike myself," he chuckled.

 

"Oh John," she laughed softly. "You still have the same exact character. What's a few wrinkles or gray hairs?" He couldn't stop smiling or looking at her. Just as Sherlock came out of the bathroom, John realized they hadn't yet released each other's arms and did so at once.

 

"Darling," Sherlock said, voice perking up suspiciously, "who's your... friend?"

 

"Oh! Sherlock, this is Marceline... is it still McDonald?"

 

"Of course. Three marriages won't ever change my name. Sherlock Holmes. So glad to finally meet you. You and your partner are the talk of the town. I do keep up with English news despite my residence." Aside from a glance at the wall then a rather briny sweep of the eyes over her form, Sherlock was a perfect gentleman, though John felt plenty of tension coming from his direction. He even spoke a bit of French with her and John smiled and nodded politely as he often did when it was being spoken so rapidly. He just hoped Sherlock wasn't using the language to hide being awful to her while at the same time being quite sure he was. 

 

"If you'll excuse us, I love this song. Let's dance, Darling." John snapped out of facilitating blending mode back into active engagement mode at his menaingful pet name.

 

"What? Alright. Good seeing you again, Marceline."

 

"Yes yes, lovely to meet you," Sherlock piped in over her reply, pulling John flush against him and staring intently into his face as he let him lead.

 

"You have no idea what this song is, do you?"

 

"Not a clue."

 

"Right." They swayed easily for a moment to Berlin's Take My Breath Away and Sherlock, as unfamiliar as he was with the tune, closed his eyes and rested his forehead on John's as his long fingers laced around the back of John's neck. The smaller man lightly, lovingly rubbed the lower back of his partner. Sherlock even exhaled once in a way that was more pronounced than his other breathing. Once more, the utter contentment he felt was only interrupted by the fact that this was all an illusion, the extra affection in this case most likely a jealous response for Marceline's eyes. Sherlock had always been rather jealous of John's time. He knew it came of his being the best friend the man never had. And of course the loveliest of things usually were a fallacy in some form. He had to say something before he got sucked too far into it. Again. "Now it's my turn to ask what's wrong and tell you to stop moping."

 

"I'm not moping, I'm dancing."

 

"Really? Don't think that just because I'm not as skilled as you are, that I don't notice things, especially when it comes to you."

 

"That so?" Sherlock's head popped up indignantly, though he lowered it again to talk so he could be properly heard over the music.

 

"Yes that is so. For example, ever since our talk behind the tree, you've only initiated touch when others are approaching and you let go as soon as they're off . You even did it in the cab, not to mention all evening here whenever I tried to engage with you in some way. And don't think I didn't see you answering emails and texting in the spa."

 

"Someone in the bathroom did ask if we were having a domestic," he pondered, his usual nose bridge wrinkles firmly in place as they were whenever he was thinking extra hard, usually about something he didn't understand. "Probably because I'd wandered into the ladies on accident."

 

"There you are. If the notoriously unobservant masses see something, you must be radiating discontent." Sherlock was never that distracted and it was worrying.

 

"John. That was rather poetic. Going by your past musings, I didn't think you had it in you."

 

"You're avoiding the question."

 

"Am I? What was it again?"

 

"Sherlock," he warned. Sherlock was quiet a moment longer, searching John's face, then sighed and pulled him aside. "What is it really?" He tried again. "You've been off ever since you told me we didn't really..." Sherlock opened and closed his mouth as he did whenever he attempted to discuss anything sentiment-related. John took pity, as usual. He took a lanky, yet muscular arm and leaned in to make sure he was heard. "Do you think I didn't want you?" Sherlock confirmed by closing his mouth once more and keeping it that way as he looked off to the side, hands somehow shoved in the pockets of his rather closely fitting trousers. If John could see clearly under the whirling coloured lights, he would have known for sure that Sherlock was blushing instead of just speculating. For now, he just pictured it, as it was a rare and sweet image. "Sherlock, to be honest I have never been so turned on. Especially by a bloke."

 

"You were so relieved," Sherlock contested, tone uncharacteristically unsure. John couldn't help but slip his right arm around the narrow waist and use his left to direct those eyes back to his. They only lighted a few times, returning to their uncertain route around the room.

 

"Because I hadn't hurt you, not because I didn't want to do anything with you. Babe...,  how could you be so clever and so dumb at the same time?" Sherlock's eyes snapped solidly to his at that question. He opened his mouth to return offense but lost the ability to do so when John usurped it with a resolving kiss that had him in the same position as that first one after their last romantic hiatus. John swore he heard a very Mrs. Hudson-like  _Awww_  coming from somewhere nearby. 

 

At Sherlock's request, they returned to the mural, especially the In Memoriam section. As they stood there, in a way similar to that of when John was preparing something in the kitchen, Sherlock guessed what killed them based on what little information he'd been given.

 

"What about these?" John asked. 

 

"Hmm," Sherlock mused into his ear, causing the tiniest of pleasurable chills as his pointing finger indicated of whom he was talking. "Cancer, car crash, line of duty, obvious."

 

"Yes, it is." It was his military photo along with a poppy and a forget-me-not. "Hey, bonus points if you can tell me what kind of cancer killed Tom Smith," John entreated, face aching form trying not to smile so widely at this fascinating demonstration. Performing monkey he wasn't, but what Sherlock _was_  exceeded even his expectations constantly.

 

"Breast cancer. Obviously, Darling." John felt he was unreasonably glad for the proper return of the pet name designated by Sherlock. He was rewarded with his Private Smile and a kiss. "Let's see...," Sherlock continued without a pause to verbally acknowledge the final proof of their mended 'romance'. "Suspected suicide but I'd wager it was murder."

 

"Sorry?" 

 

"She was murdered, John." He may as well have said 'Darling' again instead of 'John', going by his tone, but this was sort of business and Sherlock fell back on his default brand of professionalism of a sort. "By a stalker, most likely."

 

"She was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, Sherlock. It's highly possible that whilst in a depressive episode she-" 

 

"Highly possible, yes. What actually happened? Probably not." Sherlock then launched into a detailed explanation about specific elements of the photos, the former and most recent side by side as the others were whilst he pulled out his phone, took a snap of them, and began texting Lestrade. "Conclusion," he said when he finally took another breath, "she was murdered."

 

"I love it when you do that, Babe," John said truthfully, smiling up at him, and turned for yet another pleasant kiss. It was actually quite provocative, Sherlock talking that quickly, passionately flexing his big, beautiful brain. They were soon joined by Margie and a woman to whom Sherlock had been introduced as Jessica. They were on their way to the cue for the bar right by where the two men stood.

 

"You two look nice and loved up," Margie cooed. "Get over your little tiff, then?" John just laughed and shot Sherlock a fond yet somewhat irritated look. Truth be told, it was his natural state around the man.

 

"Everything's tickety-boo. Hey, why don't we take up this table here so poor Margie can get off her feet."

 

"You are a saint, John Watson," the very pregnant Margie sighed, gratefully taking John's arm so he could help her to a chair. 

 

"Sherlock, call Marceline over so she can still sit with us and Jess won't lose her place in the cue." 

 

"What? Why do I have to do it?" Sherlock looked slightly panicked for a moment in Marceline's direction.

 

"I just said why and anyway, I'm sure you have _something_ to apologise to her for." He instead followed John the short distance to the table, though it took a bit longer to navigate the chairs to the specific spot at which Margie wanted to sit..

 

"I only said that I... didn't agree with the lines of the suits in her Spring collection," Sherlock responded quietly. "I can't believe you used to date her." 

 

"Too pretty for me?" It wasn't a serious question, though John had always actually thought so.

 

"God, no. Not pretty enough."

 

"Sherlock!" John noted that Sherlock had said it in the same strange manner in which he called him beautiful earlier. It wasn't that it made him uncomfortable exactly, just... uncertain. And, no matter how often he didn't understand Sherlock, he was always sure about the fact that the man knew where he wanted to be, what he wanted to convey. It just didn't often coincide with social norms and that was okay. John didn't much care for the ambiguity of some of his thoughts since this began. Even though they weren't exactly unfamiliar... 

 

"I mean, _I'm_ not the most attractive in the world by a long shot but I know how to play up my strengths and diminish my 

weaknesses-"  

 

"You mean your overwhelming need to insult as many people as possible before you die?"

 

"I wasn't insulting her, I was trying to help. I mean her style is all over the place."

 

"And yours isn't?"

 

"God no. Just because you can't keep up with it, it doesn't mean the route isn't direct, just that I get there faster. But it's okay, almost everybody can't..."

 

"I should spank you," John teased, purposely just loud enough as they arrived at their destination, the conversation up to that point not properly reaching anyone else's ears. After getting Margie settled, he graciously held Sherlock's chair for him as Marceline arrived and took a seat to John's left, sandwiching him between his old and new paramour.

 

"I bet you could charge admission for that," Joked Marceline after Margie repeated the quip to answer her question as to what was so funny. John elbowed his partner as a reminder and Sherlock murmured something in French to her.

 

"I can't hear you," John said.

 

"You can't even understand what I'm saying." It was satisfying that he'd only to give Sherlock a warning look and the raven-haired man complied nearly immediately. Only this time he had to kick Sherlock under the table after the second attempt. John had gone to a voice to text translator on his mobile. It didn't quite understand, but the general idea was that Sherlock apologised for her designs being unworthy. "Al _right_. I apologise for insulting your work. I... The double breasted one wasn't terrible. For John, not me of course," he said clearly in English.

 

"Of course," she retorted, clearly accepting his odd brand of apology. "I actually designed it with him in mind. I always preferred his body structure. Compact yet sturdy. Deceptively strong."

 

"I know what you mean," Sherlock agreed as Jess rejoined them, overhearing the last bit because she immediately knew of whom they were talking. All the women and Sherlock then began giggling. John recognized it as distinctly a crime scene giggle, and not an affectation of his role. John's eyes went wide in surprise and a bit of embarrassment. Sherlock was talking of his older, and more times than not, achy body being ideal and everyone was agreeing with him.

 

"That's enough," he declared gently. Sherlock just draped one of his long arms around him and kissed his cheek and called him 'My Darling', which impossibly furthered his fond feelings toward it as it reminded him of the legitimate begging of the night before.

 

"John never could just take the compliment," Marceline added, still laughing. "It's very British."

 

"More wine, ladies?" John quickly offered. "Another fruit juice or water for you, Margie?"

 

"Oh look, he's blushing," Margie pointed out, sparking another round of cackling that cut off dramatically just as John turned and raised himself from his seat in order to flee the table. 

 

Sherlock's urgent, "John!" confirmed what he was afraid of, even before Margie shouted,

 

"My waters!"

 

John went immediately into field doctor mode. It was like falling off a bike. Within thirty seconds, he had an ambulance and her husband, who had opted out of making the acquaintances of her old public school mates in light of their recent parting of ways, on the way. His jacket was off and Margie was resting on a sofa in the corner that they'd covered with a plasticine table cover, used underneath the linen ones to help keep spills at bay. He also had almost complete privacy with some sheet-like dividers on wheels the hotel kept handy. The crime-solving duo were so in the habit of keeping rubber gloves and hand sanitizer on them at all times, that it was nothing for him to extract a pair and a small bottle, and pop them on after rolling up his shirtsleeves and coating his hands in the purifying liquid.

 

It turned out, Margie was a rapid deliverer. All of her children had come within minutes of her waters breaking and this one was to be no different. She was already crowning by the time everything was situated and he was extremely surprised to find that what he thought of as the top of a little bald head was something else. 

 

"So have all of yours been born with hair?" He made sure to keep his tone unconcerned, though her answer made him doubly so.

 

"Oh yes, loads of hair. No idea where it came from. I was told my maternal great, great grandmother and her siblings had a lot of it." As she went on, distracting herself with her genetic pondering, John quickly ordered more of the easier to clean plastic cloths to be put on the floor in front of the sofa as well as a clean sheet, an unused tablecloth, and some fresh bath towels that were to remain on hand.

 

"John," she begged loudly between contractions, "Tell me!"

 

"Tell you what, luv?"

 

"How you two became engaged. I'll need a good romance story to remind me why I still... love my husband through all of this shite!" He glanced at Sherlock who, upon returning from whatever tasks he'd been set to, was designated as her hand hold. He squatted behind her after removing his own fine jacket and supported her leaning back between his knees as he sat on the back of the sofa, the distressed woman attempting to break both of his hands in her grips. Sherlock first shook his head against mentioning the fact that the mother and father weren't together at the moment, then nodded giving the green light for the engagement story John so drunkenly created. After having her switch to a position where she kneeled so that she could lay forward on the sofa, John began telling what Sherlock would consider a more embellished tale of how he'd actually proposed the night before with his dog tags. In actuality, all he did was leave out exactly when it took place, the fact of their intoxication, and that it was all a charade. John had told his genuine heart at the time, or rather what he would feel if it had been real; how very much he felt for Sherlock and wanted to express it in every way possible. 

 

John kept looking briefly up at his other, trying to asses whether or not Sherlock was being upset as it was the last thing John wanted to do. Sherlock's face was frustratingly blank as murmured comforts slipped mechanically from those shapely lips. He'd remained on the couch, only slid forward to sit on it properly and having her use his legs to lean on now that she'd turned around. Sherlock had previously approved the story, as far as John remembered, but had in the past always complained about how much John romanticized him. It was considerably more stressful to believe that some things were alright in certain situations but still be unsure. He hadn't time to work out his own heart at the moment as he had two others on which to focus. Sherlock facilitated the whole thing by giving him a genuine, reassuring grin, despite the potential tragedy unfolding before him. He could tell Sherlock knew something was wrong.

 

"Oh! That's gorgeous!," the about to be new mother swooned a bit. "I hope I'm invited to the wedding."

 

"Of course," John promised, already trying to come up with an excuse for later as to why they stopped the romantic aspect of their partnership before again shaking his mind free of thoughts of himself. "Right, Margie, I'm going to need you to be as still as you can for a bit."

 

"What's the matter?! I knew something was wrong when you made me move."

 

"Women are actually meant to give birth in a similar position," he explained lightly. "Gravity makes everything easier for you. Do you know if it's a boy or girl?" It was all more distraction tactics, as he could already see the answer.

 

"Girl," she panted, resting and accepting water from a bottle from Jessica as Marceline patted her brow with a clean flannel dipped in chilled champagne bucket water. Sherlock had warned them to keep their silence about what they could also see with a secretive finger to his lips whilst she drank.

 

"You've a name for her yet?"

 

"Sian," she wheezed as John seemingly fiddled around her nethers. "I'm calling her Sian. S-i-a-n."

 

"Shawn," John tried out the pronunciation of the Gaelic spelling. "That's lovely," he commented in his most soothing tone. Sherlock's smile turned a bit odd at that bit of information, but like the rest of it he hadn't time to work it out just then. He had to explain in the least alarming way possible that little Sian was coming feet first, if he could get to her left leg to essentially thread it through the vaginal opening to join the right one. The hard-labouring woman of course began to sob about how this was her only girl and her last chance. As John hushed her, in search of proper words, Sherlock suddenly spoke up.

 

"Look at me," he commanded. Everyone present did so, though John's eyes went back and forth between Sherlock and the nearly newborn lightly wrapped in a towel and hanging from her, the head still inside. It was imperative he not handle her too much lest she take a breath before her airways were clear of the birth canal. "I trust very few people in this world, especially with my most intimate aspects, but I trust John Watson with all of my heart and, if there is such a thing, soul. He always gives his best effort even when a tenth of it is more than adequate. He could do this in his sleep with one hand tied behind his back but he is fully present, aware, and more than competent. I believe in John Watson."

 

No pressure or anything.

 

But the speech, the homage to John's last blog entry after Sherlock left served to bring tears to everyone's eyes and almost completely calm Margie. So much so, that Sian slid slowly out onto an extra thick pile of towels John held beneath her with minimal grunted effort. Mick's wife Sandra had donated a sterile packaged mucus removal bulb from a baby bag that John used on Sian while holding her in his arms face down. He then gently massaged her back and, gurgled at first, then clear and piercing, Sian announced her safe, but annoyed arrival. 

 

"We're just going to leave the cord attached until the placenta's delivered or the ambulance arrives, whichever comes first, alright?"

 

Margie could only repeat, "Oh John! My baby! My beautiful baby! Thank you! Thank you so much!" She was turned over once again and Sherlock, just staring at the entire scenario, automatically slid down onto the floor behind her as she clutched the calming infant. There was applause in the makeshift cubicle which spread and went from being interspersed with relieved gasps at the healthy squall to thunderous when Jessica went out to announce all was well.

 

Two large metal mixing bowls, one empty, the other filled with boiling water, and a wickedly sharp utility knife were brought in. The placenta was put in the empty one, the knife cleansed in the other, used immediately to sever the cord close to the source as she happily nursed with no obvious problems. Her husband and the ambulance arrived at the same time, and everyone saw the family off at the front entrance, Sherlock practically holding up his drained pseudo fiancé.

 

 

                                                                

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did do the research required to know that the particular kettle I chose is actually shit, but I was going for price, looks and fancy doodads more than anything else. The brand name was a happy coincidence.


	5. More And Yes And Everything

John was formally cheered, even by the staff who knew what was happening whether or not they were involved, and toasted. However he only partook in two shots(the 'For science!' toast implemented by Sherlock catching on immediately)before he begged for his fiancé to be allowed to take him back to their rooms. Sherlock did so without having uttered a word directly to him since his rousing speech. He'd ask later, however, as at the moment he was too busy feeling the most satisfied he'd ever been in his life, except for the time he performed an appendectomy on a seven year old Afghan girl whilst her village was being bombarded by shells. There was also the play he was in with Sherlock, but he could only see the good bits as well as some of the real bits. He sank into the hot bath and dunked his head for a few seconds, enjoying the absolute peace of being underwater. He popped up when he saw a distorted face hovering above the water line. 

 

"Alright, Babe," he greeted the kneeling man with a smile and reached for the back of his neck so he could pull him in for a sweet kiss. It became increasingly sweltering, Sherlock fumbling with his clothing and climbing into the tub that was complete with Jacuzzi jets and could seat at least three people comfortably, if they were of a mind to. John didn't even realize the other man's full on nudity until he instinctively grasped it. It was rigid in his hand, silk on steel, and caused the most wonderful little noises when gently manipulated that blended with his own less dignified ones as he was mutually pleasured.

 

He'd had some drinks that day, but even with the two large ones in a row minutes before, it was barely enough to do anything other than lower his inhibitions a bit further, make him think, surprisingly, a bit more clearly. Except for when he had Sherlock's tongue in his mouth and the fingers of his right hand tangled in Sherlock's curls and their free hands on each other's pricks. Only the basest of thoughts survived in this state at first,  _More_  and _Yes_  and _Everything_  being the most prominent. He knew when his partner was close and, for whatever reason, more complex thoughts broke through the haze, causing him to slow then stop altogether. Sherlock made the most frustrated sound, a low, brief growl with which John wholeheartedly agreed, though this had to be discussed.

 

"Sherlock-"

 

"No, John. Don't. Don't over think this. Please. We don't have to do anything ever again, if it will make you feel better. Just... just please, Darling..." Sherlock begging was again getting to be a bit more than he could stand except for the bit where he said the thing about never doing it again.

 

"You still don't understand, you daft... Look," he heaved himself up onto the side of the tub that was flush with the corner of the wall, thinking again before draping a flannel across his overwhelming erection in order to lower what seemed like a grand distraction. The way Sherlock was looking at it and licking his lips..., "If we... if we consciously did this, if we went this far without the excuse of exhaustion or alcohol, I don't think I would ever be able to stop. When this is all over, I mean."

 

"I knew what you meant." John wasn't sure, but the other man sounded extremely disappointed. Probably at how John was just like everyone else and let sentiment get in the way of everything he wanted to do. John would take on the villain role if it meant he could keep his best friend. 

 

"I won't be able to let you go and I can't lose you. Not again. Not like this." Sherlock was so quiet and still that John was afraid he had anyway, at least in part.

 

"I lost you too, you know," he said, just as John was thinking of abandoning the idea of a nice hot Jacuzzi bath and just popping into the shower for a quick scrub down and taking some pills in order to sleep through the rest of their time there in order to avoid further discomfort. He was, as usual, unsure of what Sherlock was getting at.

 

"Sorry?"

 

"When I... came back, I didn't know whether or not you still cared. You refused to see me again, even after your attempts at throttling me and your successful head butt. Even Mrs. Hudson only hit me once."

 

"She hit you?"

 

"Screamed like a banshee for a full ten seconds then punched me right in the face."

 

"Well done Mrs. Hudson!"

 

"My point is," Sherlock drawled, rolling his eyes, "I had to give you up to save your lives. All of you. And when I returned to everyone pretty much getting on with it, I just... didn't know."

 

"What did you expect us to do? Sherlock I... Of course I still..." Oh God not the tears. John cleared his throat and tried again. "You almost took me with you. I almost died with you. I almost.... to be with you I nearly..." Sherlock pushed himself between John's thighs and slid his arms around his waist, resting his head just above his right pectoral. John held on tightly, willing the tears back down as they ached in his throat. "If I didn't still care, I wouldn't have been so angry. You just needed to be patient with me, which, truth be told, isn't your strong suit." 

 

"Not really, no," came the half muffled agreement, followed by a sniff that mirrored his own.

 

"And I don't know that you'd be able to be patient enough for me to welcome you back into my life when I was ready if we got together for real and then parted. I don't know that I'd survive it."

 

"Please stop saying that."

 

"It's the truth, Sherlock." He absently kissed the top of his head, Sherlock's hair still silken and smelling of a hint of shampoo combined with a light scent of clean sweat. He then lifted it in his hands so he could have Sherlock's full attention, cradling the pretty package that contained that precious mind. "But even then, if it worked out that you were patient enough and I survived long enough, I would take you back. As long as there is something left in me, I will always take you back. However I can get you. Staying away would mean my certain dea-"

 

He could say no more as Sherlock plunged forward, writing off the moisture on both of their faces as just water splashed up because of the sudden movement. He didn't even allow John to do anything more than the kissing at first, fellating him expertly and with an enthusiasm unmatched by the very few prostitutes he'd sought the company of overseas when loneliness, alcohol, and peer pressure got the best of him in the Army. It took an almost embarrassingly short time before he was warning and spurting seemingly directly down Sherlock's throat. He knew he was a bit on the above average side in size, yet Sherlock swallowed him to the root, the sight of it alone with Sherlock blinking up at him through long, dark lashes to indicate how comfortable he was with John being fully seated, was enough to get him off, let alone including the accompanying throat movements and bollock caressing and nipple tweaking.

 

Sherlock then led John, still in the throes of port-orgasmic bliss, to lay on the rather luxurious rug that stretched the entire length of the floor in front of the bath and the nearby shower. Seemingly from nowhere, Sherlock pulled a small packet of lube which he tore open whilst further engaging John's mouth. Before the latter could protest about his refractory period not quite being what was(despite the fact that he was still semi-hard even now), or that he wasn't quite sure how ready he was for penetrative sex of the unknown homosexual variety, Sherlock begged once more, but for John to just kiss him, just hold him. He insisted John need do no more work with his hands other than holding on to him while he took care of himself fueled by passionate kisses and touches and declarations of devotion.

 

He gripped Sherlock tightly, caressing and mouthing at his neck and shoulders when they were kissing, compelled to intently watch the entirety of his orgasm before getting back to it. If Sherlock had been a woman, John would have just sunk into her with his renewed vigor, and it would have taken much longer. But, there were extra steps when it came to sex between two males. Sherlock had helpfully(?)supplied him with what he called 'research materials' as they prepared for the reunion. John of course had basic knowledge of the he clinical bit. The film clips however... They were... really something.

 

He felt the way he did about their first kiss, however. He wanted to try, yet he wasn't sure if he should have done until it was happening. Also, sex was much more of a big deal. Kissing could sometimes be more intimate, yes, however John was changing a lifetime of being the way he was and that would take some time. They hadn't even discussed it past Sherlock declaring he would be the bottom for the sake of the charade but that he preferred switch-hitting in real life. John wanted so much to ask him, but didn't feel he was entitled to even that extra information, especially past the point of their both having a clean bill of health. Besides, what if he was shit at it?

 

Having obviously passed from fantasy to reality, they had the time he needed now, and Sherlock seemed prepared to at least attempt to be patient. As he lay there on the floor contemplating how much Sherlock always jumbled everything up, the subject of his racing thoughts drained the tub a bit and refilled it with more hot. There was a knock at the door and John was immediately on his feet. The newly-formed couple then donned the thick complimentary dressing gowns and went to go see who it was. Sherlock pressed John's pistol into his shooting hand, which he kept behind his back and opened the door with his left. A hotel worker barely out of boyhood requested entry behind a trolley similar to the one they'd used for breakfast. With a pleasant greeting, John stepped aside for him to enter, keeping his back away, Sherlock at his left shoulder now.

 

"What's all this then?" John asked. 

 

"Champagne and chocolate glazed strawberries, Dr. Watson, courtesy of the new parents," he announced with a flourish, removing the metal dome in the same manner. As Sherlock examined the fare as well as the cart for reasons that were his own, the champagne was opened and poured. "May I say you do great things, sir. The two of you do."

 

"Oh. Well, ta."

 

"They say the baby came out _backward_!"

 

"Uh, yes. She was breech."

 

"My sister had one of those births. You did better with some towels and a kitchen knife than the hospital doctors fully equipped did."

 

"It's uh... it's a difficult position to be in. I'm sorry about your sister's baby, but I'm sure the doctors did all they could-"

 

"When was this?" Sherlock spoke up suddenly.

 

"Only a few days ago," the boy replied, surname Lewis, going by his name badge. Sherlock had produced his phone from his dressing gown pocket and began searching for something. "They were saying that it wasn't doctor error but something was not quite right. She hasn't the money for a lawyer so I put off going into the service to work for one." 

 

"Really? What branch?" John queried, trying his best not to see what Sherlock was doing behind him after plucking his gun from his hands and putting it back in its spot in secret.

 

"Army of course," he grinned. "Her wife's over in Afghanistan now and I have to look after Kelly for her. She doesn't even know about the baby yet. She'll be heart broken."

 

"Good lad." The whole thing was probably inappropriate and definitely tragic, but in a way, they were in the business of inappropriate and tragic, as further proven by Sherlock returning to his side just behind him and reaching past him with a business card in hand.

 

"Call this lawyer. Tell him Sherlock Holmes sent you and to look into the nurse with him in the operating theatre. If it's a Nurse Peters he'll know what to do. You all will be well compensated, no matter what. She'll have enough to fill a lovely house with children and send them all to the best schools. Kingsbury does well, but there's also Harrow..." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and john barely kept a straight face at the last comment.

 

"I... I can't thank you enough..."

 

"And here is our card," Sherlock continued. "When you're ready, ring Dr. Watson and he'll advise you on the best course of action in getting in to the Army." He then attempted to hand him a generous tip.

 

"Oh... oh no your money's no good, sir. This is so much more than I ever hoped..." He stopped speaking in order to gather himself a bit, holding up the cards. He then cleared his throat and, with a short bow left the room, tucking them into his inside jacket pocket.

 

"That was lovely, Sherlock." John couldn't help kissing him, tasting the partially consumed candied fruits in his mouth and slightly unaware he was backing him toward the bed. "Truly... lovely." 

 

"I just... asked myself... what would John do?" he managed to say before the kisses became too deep for conversation.

 

For once, Sherlock was asleep first. They managed one more orgasm apiece before he had to clean the two of them up, as Sherlock drifted off before doing so whilst John was in the bathroom. After lovingly wiping him down and covering him with the sheet, John opened his laptop to quickly jot down a few things about their rather remarkable evening as he finally got to enjoying a glass of champagne. He found himself opening and staring at an entry he made many weeks before.

 

_Contrary to popular belief, we've recently become romantic as well as business partners. We hope our relationship status no longer overshadows the work we try so hard to do in order to help our city and country._

"It still will," came sleepy words deepened by being newly, and not fully awake.

"I know," John sighed in return. "But at least people won't be so preoccupied with some perceived Eastenders-type plot point." Sherlock, the bed sheet characteristically wrapped around him, took a chair to his right, pulled it closer to John's side, and sat down in it hard. He then let his head fall on John's shoulder and the doctor gave the top a little kiss before looking back at the screen. 

 

"Should I take it down or change it or something?"

 

"Leave it. It was sort of our true beginning."

 

"Not really. I mean it wasn't real yet." Sherlock lifted his head, causing John to turn his and they locked eyes.

 

"Wasn't it?" He had him there. John wasn't at all sure of anything, except for how much he cared for Sherlock.

 

"What was this? Some elaborate, long-term seduction?" John laughed a bit at the idea.

 

"Well, I knew _you_  weren't going to initiate anything. The tension was starting to affect you negatively."

 

"Wait, what?" He turned the rest of his body to face Sherlock to make sure he heard every word of further explanation, if it was offered. Sherlock stood, closed the laptop, and sauntered back to the bed with John right behind him. "Sherlock?" The taller man then dropped the sheet, apparently an extra as the bed was still fully clothed in contrast to him, and taking advantage of the extra time John spent looking at him, untied the belt of the robe John put on when he got up and pushed it off his shoulders until it was in a pile with the sheet. Catching on that he'd definitely get nothing else without compliance on his part, John slid between the sheets, moved over to his spot, and accepted Sherlock into his arms after the lamp by the table was extinguished. Sherlock spent an inordinate amount of time arranging their limbs into however he was most comfortable and settled his head on to John's shoulder with a content sigh, closing his eyes. With another of his own at the dashed expectations of further discussion, John closed his eyes as well. He'd ask later.  

 

"I knew I had to keep you in my life at all costs," came Sherlock's words out of the darkness. "You didn't just tolerate me, or coddle me. You challenged me. In a way I never thought possible. Especially from you." Though his eyes were not yet adjusted to the dark, John looked over and down at his beloved and was able to just make out that he had his head tilted up, and was looking back. There was the a flash of pale skin here and a glittering of his eye there in the light of the street lamps. "I knew you were different from the time we first met. I didn't know what it was about you. I still don't really. But you help me in ways I never thought possible and love me in spite of all my.... shortcomings. The few times you manage to out-think me, I was actually amused! You impress and surprise me often, John Watson, and make me _like it_.  Those are not feats easily accomplished." John could hardly contain the massive yet pleasant ache in his chest at these words. " He remembered, standing in that lab at Bart's, so alone and lost, meeting Sherlock's eyes for the very first time and the single thing that sparked something within him. It had been so tiny, so oppressed by all the negativity, that he thought it a fluke, right up until they went out on that first case. He wasn't proud to admit he still sometimes doubted it to this day, but he was always proven wrong to do so. "Despite our actual relationship status at the time, I meant every word of what I said at the birth. I meant it when I said you've always been beautiful and that Marceline was not enough for you."

 

"Sherlock..." he whispered, but was unable to do anything else other than hold him more tightly and press their foreheads together.

 

"I've seen you take lives, save lives, especially mine, and now bring one into the world for the first time without hesitation. Only a truly beautiful person is able to do all of that, and still put themselves at risk in the same breath. I mean to see you live for at least a century or more, John Watson, or die trying." He was so damn tired of crying, despite the extreme pleasure that caused the current tears.

 

"Don't you dare," he whispered into Sherlock's mouth, as they were once again kissing passionately. "Don't you dare die on me again."


	6. Inspirata Floruit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the longest chapter even without the epilogue. But I kind of didn't want it to end.  
> Although, it is EXTREMELY IMPORTANT that I finished it!  
> I couldn't have done it without you.... <3 <3

 

The closing ceremony was a long brunch cocktail event. There was yet another beautiful suit for the pair, who spent as much time snogging as getting dressed, nearly missing the opening remarks. The more interesting bit was when Margie Skyped in from hospital, succeeding in getting the crowed riled back up about them, John especially. Sherlock made him stand and everyone raised their glasses to him, before whispering to him how adorable his blush was after he sat back down. He also assured him that the new parents were genuinely reconciled, at least for the moment, then kissed the corner of John's happy smile at the news.

 

They had made sure to take seats at a table that was practically in the corner, moving their chairs so close together, it was almost like they were isolated, despite being at a table full of people including Marceline and Jessica. Assigned seats were no longer required after that first evening, and Marceline and Jess were given first choice of places of honour because of their proximity to John and Sherlock during the dramatic birth of little Sian Mackey. When the speeches were over, they remained seated, sharing a plate with their heads close. At the moment, Sherlock was in a rare mood, teasing John mercilessly.

 

"Do you think all five of her children are called some version of John?"

 

"Shut up, Sherlock."

 

"I mean there's already a 'Johnny' and a 'Sian'. Perhaps there's also a 'Johann' and a 'Jonas'."

 

"Sherlock..."

 

"Maybe 'Jovan' or even 'Ivan'."

 

"Where's my gun? I'll even bury you at your old headstone. No one will suspect a thing, and even if they do, there's not a jury in the world that'll convict me."

 

"Look at you two in your own little world," Marceline broke in as they chuckled at John's allusion to Sherlock's premeditated murder. "It's so lovely." It really was. John had suddenly realised he was actually _joking_  about Sherlock being gone. The look he received in return told him Sherlock had come to the same conclusion, and that it was very much a good thing.

 

They made the rounds saying their proper good-byes, the process predictably taking almost an hour as they were caught up in many conversations from which were extracted promises to be good to each other and a few invites to the wedding. John's hand kept going to just below Sherlock's throat where hung his dog tags, beneath the surface of his button up. Each time he attempted to play it off as straightening Sherlock's collar and exactly zero people were fooled, judging by the rather longingly envious looks they received as a result. People were wishing they had something of what they apparently did, predicting its existence long before he was aware of it. Sherlock never properly answered whether or not it was all his weird way of courting. John supposed it didn't really matter. They finally, properly had each other.

 

They also had packing to do, which translated into John had packing to do whilst Sherlock had lounging, directing, and complaining to do. Both men took their jobs very seriously, Sherlock not even removing his shoes as he lounged like the Queen of bloody Sheba, John responding to the various grievances his love had regarding the daytime telly programs with the appropriate noises as he concentrated on getting everything into the garment bags and cases in their proper places. They were more easily unpacked if he took a bit of care now. Whenever he slowed, Sherlock would pipe up with something which caused him even more interest, the discussion of which would distract him into speeding back up.

 

"Darling?"

 

"Yeah, Babe."

 

 

"You didn't tell me Babe was an anthropomorphised pig." What?

 

"What?" John exited the bathroom where he'd been on an extensive search to make sure he'd retrieved all of the toiletries, complimentary or otherwise from the vast area. He'd already packed the robes, as Sherlock told him they were also gratis with the rooms. On the large flat screen over the fireplace that could be seen from space if one squinted, John saw clearly what Sherlock was talking about.

 

"Babe is a pig attempting to be a sheep dog on what looks like an Australian farm where no one has the proper accent."

 

"Hm. I suppose it is," John said, leaning against the door frame in order to observe Sherlock as he did whenever he got the opportunity. "But that's not where I got it from. It's quite normal, as far as pet names go." Sherlock looked at him then, eyes uncertain. Or perhaps John was the one unable to decipher what they meant. The taller man got off of the bed, shed his jacket, and went to stare at his reflection in the full-length mirror, touching his face in various places as if trying to determine any porcine similarities. "Look, I'll stop calling you that if you like; well I'll try, anyway. But can't you just... logic your way out of being offended or something? I mean if you are offended, that is." John, who had kicked off his shoes as soon as he crossed the room's main threshold, went up behind him and wrapped his arms about his waist from behind. "You clearly aren't a pig. It's a wonder I can get anything into you sometimes." He lay his lips on Sherlock's shoulder as he looked over it, the heat of him clear through the shirt material and loving the seemingly unwitting little smile that broke out on Sherlock's face. Sherlock turned to his right and John came around so they could face each other for a proper kiss that got impossibly deeper when they caught each other peeking at themselves in the mirror. John moved him toward the bed and lay with him on it, touching his face and lightly tracing his beautiful lips with a thumb. 

 

"You can always get  _that_  into me," Sherlock said, arching his hips into John's for indication purposes. It was just then that John noticed not only his erection, but,

 

"My God. Sherlock Holmes are you  _blushing_ whilst grinding your hard cock against mine?"

 

"I'm not used to it, John! Being real I mean. I mean I just..."

 

A flustered, blushing, stammering, and aroused Sherlock Holmes was just about all John could stand and he began undoing the rest of the buttons on the other man's shirt. For some reason, it was imperative their skin was touching as soon as possible. They did have the room for another several hours if they wanted it and it would be grand having a little more time in that lovely bed before having to go. 

 

"If the sausage fits, eh?" John mouthed his way down Sherlock's torso in a slow zig-zag pattern. Sherlock made a very convincing pig noise to which John looked up from his waist and responded, "Don't... don't do that."

 

"Too far?" 

 

"I'm not actually into bestiality," John replied, undoing Sherlock's trouser button and flies.

 

"Sorry," he said, pushing off his fine shoes, even using his long toes to remove his own socks.  "Pigs are actually as clever, if not cleverer than dogs," he said, words nervously speeding up the closer he got to his being completely bottomless. He nervously attempted to go into a lengthy explanation about animal behaviours humans also exhibited, which, according to him wasn't actually that interesting since Humans were also basically animals, and was momentarily cut off by John just going for it in his attempt at his first ever blow job. Apparently his thought became a bit more basic and random, but when he got to the bit wondering about if Mrs. Hudson would allow them to keep a few pigs on the roof of the building, he was kissed thoroughly when John suddenly reappeared over his face.

 

"Please don't talk about Mrs. Hudson right now," John pleaded.

 

"Point taken," Sherlock apologised before giving John a coy look then baring his throat. It was somehow just the right thing, as John dug his teeth into it almost savagely, at the last minute pulling back enough to just suck hard. Sherlock's gutteral utterances only served to encourage him, though that was the only actual mark left. Although there was still no venture into the penetration bit, there was still plenty of involuntary swearing. Well, it was at first as far as Sherlock was concerned, but he found it urged John to higher passion and experimented with which words applied where in what voice seemed to do the most for his libido. 

 

As they lay with the sheet draped loosely over their cooling bodies, limbs tangled, John contemplated the madness that was not only the past few weeks, but their entire life. He had a thousand questions, but very few seemed important enough to actually ask just then. He wanted to know precisely when Sherlock first fell for him, or at least realised it, because it was certainly long before this particular adventure, if memory served as to how he behaved toward someone he had more than platonic feelings for. He wanted to know if Sherlock was actually attempting a seduction or if he was just planning on never doing anything about it. Most likely the latter, going by his track record regarding emotional entanglements. Above all, he wanted to know what exactly Sherlock saw in the older, greying, broken ex-soldier, and if he knew that he'd saved John's life, for what it was worth, just as much, if not more than he talked of John saving his...

 

"Your mind is shouting," Sherlock murmured. "Kindly shut it up."

 

"Good to know some things haven't changed."

 

"Nothing really has," Sherlock said, flippantly tossing out hard truths as if merely mentioning the sky was blue. 

 

"I was just wondering... I mean I'm not you, so I have to ask."

 

"Alright."

 

"What do you like? In bed I mean." 

 

"Truthfully? Actually it's... whatever turns you on the most."

 

"Is that right?" John raised his head to look down at him. Sherlock examined the bed sheets, fingering the material as if personally counting the threads.

 

"I honestly get the biggest thrill out of seeing you lose it a bit." John chuckled and kissed the moles on the side of his neck.

 

"Is that why you take every opportunity to wind me up?"

 

"You laugh," actually they both did at the moment, "but it's not far from the truth. Seeing you impassioned ... gets me going."

 

"You must really fancy me or something, all this blushing you're doing..." 

 

"Oh leave me be." Sherlock turned onto his right side away from the teasing kisses and words.

 

"Sorry. I'm sorry," John pressed him back to his former position, trying to stifle his pleased laughter. "It's just so..." Sherlock gave him a sharp look. "Sorry." He pushed back the tousled curls and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Forgive me?" He then kissed each of Sherlock's eyes.

 

"Never," Sherlock pouted, simultaneously offering his lips for another kiss.

 

"You're sure?" A much less chaste kiss ensued.

 

"Mm... positive." After an even lengthier kiss that nearly resulted in round two, John pulled back a bit to look into eyes he also couldn't get enough of. 

"We should continue this discussion at home," he stated not quite understanding the tiny spark of reluctance that surfaced at the words. Yes the bed was comfortable but it wasn't their flat. Besides, whatever it was, it didn't really have to do with that bit. Sherlock agreed yet remained where he was for several more minutes as if waiting for something. The theory was confirmed just as John was about to go in for another kiss, when a knock sounded at the door.

"That's for me." Sherlock completed the kiss much more quickly and simply than John would have liked, but he was taking what he could get for the moment. He then leapt out of bed, pulling on his trousers and shirt as he made his way to the door. He returned moments later, and John knew there was no point in asking when Sherlock wordlessly put the parcel carefully into his bag and continued to dress, unfortunately doing up his shirt buttons but completely forgiven for the glimpse of his pubic hair as he undid his trousers in order to tuck it in, reminding John of his very much pants-less state. How the hell John managed to keep his hands off of him during the intervals he couldn't fathom. John followed suit in the dressing department as they discussed the finer points of the change to their future together. At least the occasion that would publicly mark it. "We simply must invite Marceline and Margie, Darling. I need to make sure they physically see us exchange rings..."

"Babe," John said, kissing Sherlock's jaw on his way by to retrieve wipes from his bag for a final once over, "you're a brat."

"Excuse me?" John only laughed, forcing Sherlock to drop his affected offense and continue his seemingly random thoughts. John had to admit that the idea Sherlock could even be jealous in this way made him feel all warm inside. He had only to keep him from carrying out some things because of this newfound facet of jealousy. "You know Mrs. Hudson will be thrilled about all of this."

"That she will. She's always thought we were a couple, if you remember when she first met me."

"I do," Sherlock chuckled. "Perhaps she'll be thrilled enough to let us have the pigs after all. Just until the wedding. The tribal people of Hawaii do a thing where they roast one over coals in the ground for hours-"

"I'm not digging a fire pit in which to roast a pig to serve at our wedding feast. What's your obsession with pigs all of the sudden?" Sherlock was quiet for a moment after that. 

"It would be fun, though." 

"Yes, Sherlock, it would be fun."

 

"Well there we are. Pigs for the wedding feast."

 

"No."

 

"But-"

 

"Just... no."

 

***

In the quiet comfort of each other's company(read: Sherlock pouting about pigs), they made sure they had everything before checking out of the hotel.

The car pulled up in front of the familiar black door the knocker jauntily to the left meaning Mycroft hadn't visited. Sherlock didn't really touch him more than usual, well more than what had become the new norm which was loads more than before, but then he was almost never one for unnecessary public displays. He did allow John's hand on his thigh, even putting his hand on top of it and absently moving it up closer to his groin when John tried to show a bit more decorum and initially just pat his knee. He said little other than confirming his older brother wasn't laying in wait for them, poised to give them an earful about their relationship.

As soon as he saw that door however, John figured out what that little scrap of disinclination was. Fear. He found himself mildly terrified that once they'd properly entered their flat, all would be revealed as still a sham, and Sherlock just added the last bit about actually wanting him to make it more real so that John wouldn't give up on it and start pulling away too early. As usual, Sherlock took only the bag he'd kept with him inside the cab(containing the mysterious package), leaving the several others as well as the driver payment to him as he unlocked the door and went in saying something about how Mrs. Hudson wasn't in. John watched him disappear by increments up the first ten steps of the seventeen that led to the sitting room and kitchen doors and he could at first only stand there taking deep breaths.

Going through the front door wasn't as difficult as he thought it would be. Sherlock calling his name distracted him just long enough with the compulsion to go to him. Going upstairs, however, seemed to be a more serious issue. He left the luggage by the door out of the way, thinking it would be easier to ascend without them. Though there were walls to support him should he need a handhold, John still found himself thinking of a scene in an old cheesy horror film during which the burned nightmare monster was chasing the heroine upstairs and her feet began sinking into the steps as if they contained pits of melted marshmallow. It was vaguely how he felt, trudging upward, each step increasingly difficult, until finally, he reached the sitting room door. The kitchen door was still closed and bolted fast.

He called Sherlock's name and strained to try and look about the room without actually putting any part of himself in it. He called again, but still there was no answer, no movement, and no Sherlock, as far as he could see anyway. He was suddenly yanked through the door by the lapels of his jacket and barreled back against it, slamming it shut. His impulse to take immediate control of the situation was quelled with the introduction of a foreign yet welcome tongue into his mouth and hands that seemed to be simultaneously stripping off his jacket and undoing his shirt buttons. To be fair, he was no longer sure which hands belong to whom as the single goal seemed to be getting him naked and subsequently orgasming as soon as possible. Sherlock was murmuring things into his ears and mouth that were only filthy by implication and that extra grumble he seemed to have in his speaking voice whenever he was aroused. It usually followed his erection noise if he wasn't concentrating on controlling it, but now he allowed it to remain for the purpose of asking what took John so long, and reminding him that not only was he not wearing pants, but if it were up to him, neither one of them would wear them ever again if it wasn't for practicality's sake. 

John of course needn't have worried. He should have known that the one emotion Sherlock couldn't have faked was whatever attracted him to John. He'd seen something like it with Irene Adler and a slightly different yet equally similar thing with Janine, but this was too raw, as if it actually caused the man physical pain to express it, though he could under no circumstances re-cage it once it was properly free.

It all frustratingly and abruptly stopped when Sherlock seemed to disappear into thin air. Of course John's eyes being shut had a little to do with it, but when he finally opened them, Sherlock was standing by the cold fireplace, in full blown disarray. His carefully controlled chaos of a hair style had descended to mere chaos, his flies hanging open in flaps with just the very top of the base of his hardened penis peeking out from beneath the hair there, slightly coarser than that on his head. Only a small section of his completely unbuttoned shirt on his left in back was tucked in and that was because John had his hand there, pushing it past his waist band in order to grab hold of the fantastic roundness that kept turning him on further with the reminder that it was bare under his trousers. John could only imagine how he himself looked; probably like a Hobbit with a hard on compared to a majestic dragon, sizing his losing prey up for round two of their fight to the death. 

"What is it?" Something was making Sherlock nervous and no matter how horny he was, it was more important he find out what ailed his love's heart. John approached him as non-threateningly as possible and halted in time to keep a few inches between them.

"Are we genuinely...," Sherlock tried. "I mean I know I feel... and we said we..." Sherlock exhaled such a frustrated growl and grabbed two handfuls of his own hair, stomping over to sit down hard on the sofa. All at once, it dawned on John. Since they'd made it actually official, neither one of them had used the most important word that described what this was, and Sherlock was suffering with his own anxiety John could have kicked himself for not seeing more clearly. He was too busy with his own doubts when it all was right there in front of him. He gentled Sherlock's hands out of his hair with a fond sigh and gave his rather tender scalp a little rub as he sat next to him, then pulled him close so they could wrap their arms around each other.

"I meant that proposal, you know," was all he could think to say at the moment. Sherlock nodded slowly, instinctively reaching for the disks of John's dog tags so that he could fiddle with them. It seemed to be the correct thing, but John wasn't yet sure.

"I meant my answer," Sherlock replied, and John let out a relieved breath and made sure this time.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. William and Scott and all."

"And I love you, John Watson. Hamish and everything." Just as the sealing kiss was again going to go past a point of no return, Sherlock unceremoniously dumped the parcel, which John vaguely remembered being somewhere on the the side away from where he was sitting, into John's lap. He was reminded of their state of undress as he looked down at it, yet didn't much care in light of this new yet inevitable and timeless development.

"What's this?"

 

"Engagement present."

 

"Sherlock you didn't have to-"

 

"Oh but I did. And anyway, I think you'll find it serves as a wedding gift as well. Two birds, one stone and that."

 

"Thank you." He kissed Sherlock, tempted to intensify it past reason, but was definitively removed from his face by a pair of strong hands on his shoulders.

 

"You haven't opened it yet. And don't go spouting some bollocks about it being the thought that counts. If you don't open it, you won't know just how much thought went into it."

 

"This purposely swearing Sherlock is more than a little bit sexy," John grinned, finally deciding not to worry about leaving his shirt and jeans buttons undone as he tore into the packing tape with a wickedly sharp pocket knife. 

 

"As is knife-wielding John," said Sherlock. "Well, any weapon, really. Oh! I need to get you a sword!" Sherlock pulled out his phone to text furiously.

 

"I don't need a sword, Sherlock."

 

"Got that right," Sherlock replied as if he was merely thinking out loud instead of a rather juvenile attempt at innuendo, then stopped and smirked bashfully at John, confirming it being inadvertent. He whipped his eyes back to his phone screen when John gave him a lascivious wink. 

 

The box contained loads of padding of the air-filled plastic variety and a large, heavy wooden box, lightly finished and carved with some sort of crest he only recognised vaguely as his family's. 'Watson' being written on the scroll beneath helped tremendously, yet he vaguely recalled from childhood, the hands holding the tree branches as well as the family motto _Inspirata Floruit_. 'It has flourished beyond expectation.' It was so odd how many things one phrase rang true for. When he unclasped and lifted the lid, he gasped, mouth falling open, eyes roaming over the contents, then to Sherlock, then back again to the box. A brass plate affixed to the inside of the lid had words etched into it, but they were difficult to read at the same time he was looking at the rest of it all.  

 

"You should have a closer look," Sherlock mentioned softly, having gotten even closer and a bit behind John to his right as John sat up straight. Sherlock placed his left hand gently on John's left shoulder, smoothing over the ridges of his strangely as yet un-commented upon bullet wound scar under the cloth with reverent fingers. The ex Army captain lifted the main item deferentially from among the accompanying cleaning and configuring apparatus and turned it over in his hands once before aiming it toward the fireplace and then the window closest to the sofa.

 

"Adams Mk III Model 1872 revolver," John said quietly, as if speaking too loud would disturb the ancient firearm. He brought it back to hold it again in both hands. "My... I think two or three times great-grandfather had one when he fought in the Second Anglo-Afghan War."

 

"Mm," Sherlock agreed, then pointed to the certificate. John carefully lifted it and at first murmured the words as he read them, voice climbing in volume as he continued. 

 

"Watson, Hamish J., Sixty-sixth Berkshire Regiment of Foot, Captain... Sherlock! How...?" He spun with wide eyes to one of the most intense looks he'd ever seen on Sherlock's face.

 

"I read somewhere while we were preparing, that an engagement and/or wedding gift is often exchanged. I thought of what I would give you in this position and wanted something... unique."

 

"I'll say."

 

"So I did a bit of research and called in a few favours... et voila."

 

"Damn right, voila. Sherlock... This is a-a museum piece," he stammered.

 

"Quite," Sherlock said, snapping a photo on his phone of John with the gift, overwhelmed expression unable to be erased despite the happy posed grin. "The only stipulation to my acquisition of it for you is that if it doesn't go to a direct descendant, officially adopted or otherwise, it goes either to the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle museum, as he has a great interest in our family histories for whatever reason, or the National Museum of Scotland. By the way you _will_  be wearing a kilt for the wedding."

 

"Only if you do. Properly, since you're so averse to pants now."

 

"Alright. Whatever." John couldn't believe how quickly his arousal returned at the mere agreement, the potential for shenanigans increased tenfold. He took his time, carefully replacing and securing the gun. It was time. No more waiting for the next step to happen to him while he was still trying to decide what it would be. He kissed Sherlock lightly before standing and walking back to the fireplace. He set the box next to the already framed prom photo they'd taken, his desire becoming further increased when he noticed that, in the photo, Sherlock had taken the dog tags out of his shirt so that they could be displayed prominently. He trailed fingertips over it before going to lock the sitting room door and check the kitchen one on his way to Sherlock's bedroom.

 

It had been rather Spartan compared to the rest of the flat, but now that all of his scientific equipment was in there as well as a fridge and an extra desk, it was full to the brim with Sherlock's very essence, and, he noticed, some of him too. The bed remained freshly made, and a quick search of the desk revealed the items he knew he'd need. He then made sure the doors to the loo remained open as he started the shower and, as predicted, Sherlock called to him from inside the room as he stood under the warm spray. He only poked his hand out from the curtain in response and smiled as it was grasped after a moment of what sounded like fumbling.

 

John knew Sherlock, knew his body, but not even all the patchwork and the past few weeks of above average intimacy revealed to him all he took the time to examine now. Every scar, mole, and hair served as a familiar marker as he mapped the mans body through cleansing it. He then allowed Sherlock to do the same, answering his anticipated questions including those he'd shielded John from at the reunion. Some answers had to be put off for another time, as they would corrupt what John was trying to do. He would reply to those with slow kisses, a language to which Sherlock adapted immediately. 

 

They stepped out only when the water grew frigid, drying each other off slowly despite the goosebumps and other hardened skin. They then each donned their old dressing gowns, as the others were still packed and downstairs, and when John went into the bedroom, Sherlock went into the kitchen, returning moments later with two steaming mugs of tea, just the way John took his. Upon smelling his, John noticed an extra element, the pungent odor of whiskey prevailed and John grinned, only taking two long sips before setting it aside and pushing down further beneath the sheet and duvet. Sherlock copied his actions and there, under the covers, it fully began. 

 

Seeing chinks in Sherlock's armor was always thrilling, but John wasn't quite prepared for a fully exposed one. It seemed Sherlock wasn't sure if he was for such complete exposure either, but John made absolutely sure in any way he could, that no matter what, Sherlock knew he was always safe in the circle of his embrace for as long as he lived. It seemed to open the floodgates and what came pouring out was a heart-rending, toe-curling, full-body quaking passion that left John unable to breathe, and frankly uncaring as to whether or not he did so again. He never knew what it was to completely surrender until then. Not everything came naturally, of course. But John had done many things in his life with which he was unfamiliar, and the base hunger for everything about each other prevailed over any awkwardness.

 

As they lay together, at last drained and bathed in their excretions and emissions, John found himself exhausted, and not just because of their activities. It was full dark and he wasn't aware how much time had passed other than it had to have been several hours. He was sore in places he had little familiarity with being so, and aching pleasantly in others. It wasn't just physical, however. No matter what happened after this moment, everything negative in his life right then was gone. He bore no burdens, had no fears, wanted for nothing. The way Sherlock lay drowsing in his arms as John stroked his temple with the fingertips of his right hand spoke of his experiencing something similar. 

 

They slept for hours, waking only for the toilet and subsequently when they absolutely had to eat. John climbed onto the bed with a search of take-away places pulled up on his phone. Sherlock feigned sleep as John softly called his name between dustings of kisses. He didn't pretend very well, as an unwitting smile appeared when John nuzzled a certain spot on his neck.

 

"I suppose I'll just have to choose something since you're still asleep," John lamented dramatically before exiting the room and as he walked extra slowly down the short hall that lead to the kitchen, he put the phone to his ear and loudly said, "Hello? Sultan's Palace? This is John Watson and I'd like our usual curry order as well as-"

 

"No!" came the cry from the other room as he simultaneously heard the loud fumbling of trying to get out of bed as quickly as possible in order stop the impending travesty that was one. more. curry. John didn't at all mind being practically tackled for his phone by a completely nude Sherlock, as well as the subsequent little warning frown complete with nose crinkles when he discovered John hadn't actually called the place. John ended up locking himself in the bedroom to use Sherlock's abandoned phone. He loudly continued his curry order while actually ordering a large sushi combo for two via text to one of Sherlock's contacts he knew provided such services. John was fully prepared for the consequences of Sherlock having to break into his own room and his supposedly ordering curry anyway. 

 

He still won the wrestling match.

 

 

 

                                                  

                                                        

 

 

****

 

 

 

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

 

John pressed the round red 'end call' button on his mobile screen and lay it down on the little tea table next to his chair as he stared across at his husband of five years as of that past May, who was nervously playing with his lush bottom lip. He stood to look at their collection of romantic memorabilia. There was the prom photo and, on the other side of his antique pistol, a copy of their wedding invite, ' _For Science'_   written in beautiful calligraphy on the cover. Where the mirror used to be over the fire place now hung their wedding portrait. It was this on which his eyes lingered.

 

"Well?" Sherlock urged, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees.

 

"There are two."

 

_"Two?!"_

 

"Two. Very healthy and very strong. Of course it's much too early to tell the sex, but-" Somehow John was on his feet, off of them briefly, then back on them again, all the while being thoroughly held. He hugged back with all his might, giving Sherlock the same lifting experience. They kissed with just as much zeal as the embrace contained.

 

At the wedding, Harry somehow had a major change of heart. John wasn't sure it wasn't something Sherlock instigated, but would never know, as he still had his secrets. John knew all the ones that were important at least. Like precisely where and how hard to bite to make him screech like a woman. It was endlessly amusing, though he could only employ the knowledge sparingly as Sherlock came dangerously close to snapping his neck on more than one occasion when doing so.

 

Harry had taken them aside into a little room and told John she wanted to attempt to begin making up for all that had happened between them. She swore that this time, she was kicking the drink for good and had already been in this fancy new alternative program for months. It was proper hospital care in a home environment. At John's predictable reluctance, she laid out a specific timeline, describing her plan. John had never heard anything like that from her before yet he still of course doubted for the most part, though she outlined everything from diet and exercise to therapy and her plans to find various useful hobbies. That was until she got to the bit where she promised that when she was in full health for three or more years, and she had already made sure before she came to him that all would be in good working order, that she would proudly carry a baby of his and Sherlock's. They were full siblings therefore sharing the same lineage, so it would be a true combination of the two men, genetically speaking, if Sherlock provided his part. They'd hugged and cried and John apologised for still keeping his doubts, though he promised to support her. She seemed to understand completely.

 

Over the years after that, there were regular visits back and forth between her brand new flat and theirs. John, who admitted to seeing something of an extraordinary change right away at their wedding, saw even more during that time, even though they now saw each other often. They didn't discuss surrogacy again until she came to them with the reminder of her promise. Sherlock convinced him all would be well. He'd taken some measures himself as far as diet and exercise was concerned in order to give the most healthy sample possible, a practice which John also took up in order to be his support in it, and now here they were, healthier and happier than ever. Even Clara was tentatively back in the picture, agreeing to be her coach, and perhaps her wife again.

 

"When can we see them?" Sherlock was even more eager than John ever thought he would be at the thought of children once they became a reality.

 

"Probably about a week. We'll need to wrap up this case and-"

 

"It was the brother in the front room of their biological father's house."

 

"With the candle stick?"

 

"What?"

 

"Never mind. Sherlock were you holding back solving it?" John poked him warningly in the chest.

 

"Not exactly."

 

"Babe you can't-"

 

"I can't do all the Yard's work for them," Sherlock protested.

 

"No you can't but this man had children; children who need to know what happened to their father as soon as possible." Sherlock looked genuinely contrite.

 

"I suppose... I suppose you're right. We're to be parents ourselves soon and I guess I'll need to start thinking like one; what will be best for the children and so forth."

 

"Exactly." John accepted his apologetic kiss and slipped Sherlock's phone from his jacket pocket to put into his hand. Sherlock kissed him once more and sat back down to begin texting Lestrade.

 

"Done and done. Can we go now?"

 

"Not right now Babe, she's exhausted. First thing tomorrow, I promise. I won't even go in to the surgery and we can spend the day if you like."

 

"Fine." John walked the few steps over to his side and leaned down to kiss his temple.

 

"And no running off to go see her anyway when I'm in the loo or something." Sherlock's eyes cut up to him. "Sherlock..."

 

"Fine."

 

"Promise," John urged.

 

"John..."

 

"Promise me, Sherlock. I'll be very disappointed if you see our babies for the first time without me. It's bad enough Clara got to see them before us." Sherlock's demeanor changed slightly, meaning John had finally properly gotten through to him.

 

"Alright, Darling. I promise." 

 

"Good man," John praised, then kissed him, ending up in his lap.

 

"You know John," Sherlock pondered between the incrementally intensifying kisses, "time would pass a lot more quickly if we were to," he gripped John's torso, running his hands along his back as John mouthed at his throat and unbuttoned his shirt, "find something with which to occupy ourselves." John was now shirtless and his jeans were as open as Sherlock's trousers. "I'm thinking that between now and about eighteen to twenty weeks from now, we need to have each other as many times as possible, in as many places as possible in this flat before we have to worry about interruption and exhaustion."

 

"I don't care what anyone says about you, Sherlock Watson-Holmes, you're a very clever man." That earned him a slap on the backside which subsequently got Sherlock's neck bitten. 

 

Sherlock made The Sound.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS,
> 
> The gun Sherlock gave John was the one that Victorian John would have been issued in the war in which he would have been a part back then, according to ACD Canon. <3 <3


End file.
